Divinorum

Music in my head: Kaneda- Forgive me first father (our blood shall free the earth)

Today's weather: Cold and Sunny.

It’s been entirely too long. My days are melting into each other, the cycle repeats, and repeats, and repeats. And then all of a sudden, just for ten little minutes, it stops.

I was sucked into an alternate reality by an unstoppable force, and that force was me. I watched myself walk through a tropical jungle in my living room. Sunlight trickled down to the forest bed through the branches of colossal white sheet metal trees. Three giant faces spanned my sky, illuminated by the soft light, the faces of the gods. I cowered in worship. I spoke to them in a strange tongue, and I understood everything I said. They did not, and they laughed. Man’s glossolalia, God’s gibberish.

I walked into a temple through the sheet metal trees. As I strolled in, an ancient device whirred to life. It broke the absolute silence that preceded, and commanded my complete attention. It was a conveyer belt made of stone, and it went round and round and round. As if guided by voices, I climbed on it, sat down, and waited in eager anticipation.

Sitting on the living room floor, I saw myself move forward on the conveyer belt. I sat frozen to the floor when I saw my body being cleaved in two. I felt my insides being split apart, but when I looked at myself, I was whole. But I knew I was not. I was on the conveyer belt, split longitudinally, joined at the top of my head. Sunlight entered me, and energized by the millions of photons that hit my insides, I started spinning. I was like the hands of a clock in fast forward, conjoined at my head. I went round and round for seconds, minutes, hours. The belt inched forward, and I was on it, spinning like a CD.

I did not know how much time had passed. Gradually, I stopped spinning. I had reached the end of the conveyer belt. And in the most intense moment of my life, my body was rejoined. I walked out of the temple. The forest was fading away. I walked into the living room and sat down next to myself. I looked at me, and acknowledged my presence for a fleeting second. And then I was gone, only I remained.

The gods had descended from the heavens, they were merely human now. A faint afterglow lit up the place. The only remnants of my sojourn in the jungle were cold sweat that had completely drenched me, and a feeling of euphoria, mixed with slight bewilderment, mellowed down by drowsiness. The dream had passed, but reality was still a haze.

My sweat evaporated as I lay under the draft from an over-enthusiastic Air Conditioner, and soon, I was cold. I wrapped myself up in a blanket and curled up again.

Now, the cycle repeats, and repeats, and repeats.

We lost the sky

Music in my head: Iron& Wine - The Trapeze Swinger
Today's weather: Warm and fuzzy

Thick sheets of yellow light

Once fell to the ground

Through thick sheets of glistening air.

A painted sky on a starry night

Now lost, then found.

Cold was not death, cold was not despair.

The storm winds that once roared

Into wrapped woollen ears

Is now but a whisper, but a sigh.

We sing for her a solemn ode

And tread on her tears.

We have the sun, we lost the sky.

Midterm Crisis

Music in my head: Ef - Två
Today's weather: Snow predicted on Friday.

I'm freezing. I'm studying. I'm chopping vegetables. I'm scanning books. I'm sleeping. I'm eating cheap pizza. I'm bitching about life. I'm counting costs. The preceding is the basis for the vector space that my life has now become. Everything I do is a linear combination of all these things.

Grad school has thus made me a nerd. However, I am told (by many reliable sources) that a nerd who plays the guitar is chick fodder. So to keep my spirits up, I still play the guitar occasionally and try to conjure up a smoking hot audience in my head. But when I close my eyes, all I can think of is Orthogonal vectors and Canonical forms. I have been infected.

But this infection is good for me. I have a midterm tomorrow, and I hope that this one, like the one last week, goes well. So I'm trying to do everything I did the night before the last midterm tonight. And that was when I wrote the previous post.

But I was not blessed by the Flying Spaghetti Monster with a brilliant inspiration today. I tried to come up with some nice riffs, but nothing sounded good. Maybe I'm not supposed to do well tomorrow. Or maybe I'm supposed to do even better than I did last time. Only FSM knows.

But I'll be damned if I give up without a fight. I had a bunch of recordings of stuff from happier, better days in Trichy, a place that seems almost idyllic in my head. Shame on me. So I took those recordings, cleaned them up on audacity and uploaded them. Here they are.

If I don't do well in the midterm tomorrow, the first thing I'll do is come back and delete this post. The second thing I'll do is shake my fist (Homer Simpson style) at humanity.

Four Stages edit by krishnac


Valley of Flowers by krishnac


Sleep project by krishnac



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Grad School Therapy

Music in my head: Steven Wilson - Home in Negative
Today's weather: Getting colder

It's been a long time. Why? Grad life sucks.
I've been doing homework after homework, and after a point, it just seems an exercise in futility. What's the point? So I decided to mix things up a little. It had been a long, long time since I really did something with my guitar, so I decided to record some shit, to relax, maybe reduce the rate of brain cell death.
And I found that just closing your eyes and playing whatever comes to your mind is extremely relaxing, therapeutic even. I accidentally played this riff with a nice ring to it, and decided to set one of my old poems to tune over it. What do you know, it actually sounded half decent. Then I decide to become really pretentious, so I add a little slide guitar bit in, using a small bottle of mouth-freshener as my slide. Add some echo on audacity, and voila. Here it is. Listen to it, ignore the crappiness of the recording, and tell me how it is. You'll be contributing to my therapy!

Moondust by krishnac

Party Poop

Music in my head: Simon and Garfunkel - Scarborough Fair Canticle
Today's weather: Dustbowl

Yesterday, I had to go to a party. Not the cool kind, like the once we used to have back in the day. Yeah, I can use the expression 'back in the day' now. I just got my final CGPA. But I digress. I had to go to a party, with my folks, at an Army mess, dressed up in ironed clothes and polished shoes. The bane of the existence of every self-respecting Army brat. Yes, you get as many (soft) drinks as you want, and you can eat as many pieces of Chicken-65 as you want, but that's not the end of the story.

This is what usually happens at such an occasion- I enter the Drawing room with my folks. Everyone exchanges pleasantries. They ask me which class I was in. I smile a big fake smile and explain to them that I have, in fact, completed my B.Tech. They proceed to explain to me how I don't look my age, and sometimes add an anecdote which proves that looks can be deceptive. This is all acceptable. Yes, I have a very high tolerance level for extremely irritating, mind-numbingly boring conversation.

Next, they beam at me and tell me- "Accha, bete, bacche log TV room mein baithe hain. Tum vahi jaake baith jao. Hum pepsi udhar bhijwa denge. (Ok son, the kids are in the TV room. You can go join them. We'll send you some pepsi.)" I look at them with a quizzical expression. I just told you that I am twenty one years old, you age-ist old person. Isn't that clever? That's like discrimination based on age, like racist is discrimination based on race. In that awkward silence, I think up clever things like that. And then, of course, the big grown ups get their grown-up drinks and form their little grown up conversation circles. And that's freedom.

The window of opportunity to escape from the Drawing Room without having to be escorted to the TV room is very small. So I usually just get the hell out at the first chance. I go hang around at the garden or something. This time, when I walked out, I saw a metallic staircase. It was as if a spotlight from heaven had lit it up. I walked up these stairs, very slowly, immersing myself in the anticipation. It led up to the roof. There was some construction work in progress. I had found my spot.

It was magic. I was transported back to Trichy. There was this ugly structure coming up right in front of the main gate. For months we couldn't even figure out what it was. Then we realised that it was a flyover. We figured out a way to get on top of it. And then after braving a mercilessly sweltering Trichy day, we would go up there at night. We would sit there, listen to music and watch the headlamps of the cars, buses and trucks flicker as they passed by in the distance. And we would talk about the EPL, the sucky Profs, how the Project was a pain in the rear, how the lights look like they're dancing to the music that's playing, of cabbages and kings. And the cool breeze would refresh us, and the guards would give us suspicious looks. But at that moment we hadn't a care in the world.

And two months later and two thousand kilometers away, I felt like I was back. I felt the buzz of passing traffic. I played the music in my head. Headlamps of speeding cars danced in the distance. I narrowed my eyes to slits until the lights were a blur. I could hear stuff in the background- "Dude, Torres is God", "Dude that Prof can't even spell redundant", "Dude I've left my lip-marks on my Prof's rear. I hope I get an A", "Dude Steven Wilson is genius".

Then suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. As my eyes came back into focus, I half expected myself to be greeted by the Guard anna. "Bhaiyya, khana lag gaya", he said. I was back from my sojourn in time. I went to the dining room, picked up some dinner, pretended to be interested in the dinner conversation. They could've been talking about cabbages and kings, for all I care.

The next time I'm caught in a tedious conversation, I'll just excuse myself, find the roof and sit there, looking at traffic, in my happy place, with my friends.

"Did you ever imagine the last thing you'd hear as you're fading out was a song?....
... Arriving somewhere, not here..."

Kashmir

Music in my head: Sigur Rós - Glósóli
Today's weather: The damp after the storm.

Round and round the rugged rocks the ragged rascal ran. As for us, we spiralled our way up from the barren valley that is Leh, through precarious roads and endless hairpin bends to Fotula pass, before we wound our way back down to Kargil.


It was an eight hour ride, and by the time we reached Kargil, I was full of dust, pins-and-needles and insightful thoughts resulting partially from multiple power-naps and a few conversations. I am not going to describe how picturesque the scenery was, I just don't have the words for it. I'm just putting up a few thousand below, just so you get an idea.

I'll put up the rest of the pictures on picasa soon. For now, I'll share some of the more interesting thoughts, perhaps epiphanies, I had during the eight hour road trip.

The common Kashmiri man is a closed box. He is cut off from the rest of the world by about ten hours in time and 400 kilometers in space. He gets yesterday's newspaper, and all he reads is the bollywood section. He survives without cable TV, heck, without power, twelve hours a day. But he is hard as a rock (not what you're thinking, you perv). He can brave icy winds in spite of just one layer of clothing, as opposed to the four or five layers we have on our backs. Hence, one can safely summarise that he is a strong, ignorant brute. I made these inferences from the two drivers in our little convoy. The clincher was the following conversation I had with one of them:

Driver: Bahut thand hai na? (It's really cold, isn't it?)
Me: Haan Bhaiya, Bahut Thand hai. (Yes, it is really cold)
Driver: Toh, tum kaha rehte ho? (So, where do you live?)
Me: Hum log Dilli mein rehte hai. (We live in Delhi)
Driver: Accha. Par proper gaon kaha hai? (Ok, but where is your hometown?)
Me: Voh to Kerala mein hain. (That's in Kerala)
Driver: Accha. Kerala kaha hain? (Ok. But where's Kerala?)
Me: Voh to kaafi neeche hai, kaafi south mein hai. (It's way down south.)
Driver: Oh, accha accha, Jammu side mein hain kya? (Oh right, it's near Jammu, is it?)
Me: (with a startled smile) Nahin, nahin bhaiya, bahut south mein hai. Samundar ke paas. (No no, its really way down south, near the sea.)
Driver: Accha, accha.
Me: (To break the awkard silence) Toh aap kahan ke ho? (So, where are you from?)
Driver: Kya, karein. Kargil mein janam ho gaya. To vahin pe rehna pada. (What can I do? I was born in Kargil. So I have to live my life there.)

My dad later told me that he's met a teacher in Kargil who couldn't name the President, didn't know how many states there were in India and couldn't even name five of them. I can't change anything. I'm just listing the facts.
Hence proved.
Now, coming to the women. Leh is predominantly a Tibetan community, so the women there are like the women you see in Darjeeling- dressed in the latest fashion, sporting shades and weird hairdos- the works. But in Kargil, you couldn't spot a single woman who wasn't wearing a hijab (a scarf that covers the head and the neck). And they're all really fair and well proportioned to boot. So, initially I cursed the Gods for denying me the enormous amount of eye candy that Kargil has hidden away under layers of wool.

But as time passed, and I started observing more carefully, I remembered a discussion I had with a friend back in college. The conclusion was that if a woman wears skimpy clothes, revealing all she has- her cards are on the table. That's it. Take it or leave it. But when a woman is hidden away under a burkha or a hijab, you can let your imagination run wild. You don't know what she's holding. Could be a pair, two pairs, maybe a straight, maybe a full-house, maybe even a flush. Whatever she bets, you'll call. As you get used to it, you can conjure up a straight flush every time you see a wrapped up woman. So ever since I had that awakening, my whole stay at Kargil just filled up with light.

So that's all about the men and women of Kashmir. I might continue my travelogue later, or I might not. Delhi's humid and I'm lazy. So in case the Universe doesn't conspire to create another such creative moment for me, I leave you with my sum-up of Kashmir- it's like being in the music video of a soaring post-rock song. Look up the song that I've been looping for a while now- Glósóli by Sigur Rós. Close your eyes. Turn on the Air-conditioner. You're in pseudo-Kashmir now. Enjoy your stay.

I Live on the Moon

Music in my head: Kwoon- I lived on the Moon
Today's weather: Hell frozen over.

Yesterday, an age ago,
We left the earth way down below.
Lost in deep watery space,
We floated in a state of grace.
Ethereal music filling our heads,
We flew onward on astral threads.
Everything we touched was gold,
Sounds distinct, letters bold.
The lights that flashed before our eyes-
A ménage of joy and surprise,
A stitched on smile upon our face,
Beady eyes, distant gaze.
Moondust blurs our mortal vision,
Moondust bestows ambition.
Once we were all full of sorrow,
But now, like there’s no tomorrow,
We roll around in a dusty glen,
We shape curious sand snowmen.
Lo, Behold the burning snow!
We remember now, an age ago
We burnt all that’s green and good,
A little stub is all that stood
In a blue apparition, far away-
Nothing’s left of it today
‘cept memories that won’t fade away soon.
For now, though, we live on the moon.



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Constant Change

Music in my head: The Necks- The Boys I
Today's weather: Pretty cool for hell.

And I'm back to Trichy, for the last time. It seems like I (and my friend, who wishes to remain anonymous) was almost beaten up by the 'creative' tenth only yesterday(for those who don't get it, e-mail me- I've another six months left to spend ensconced within these walls). A lot of crazy stuff has happened to me over the years, and Mr. Bhagat, you don't get any credit for it. What had remained constant, though, was this beast that is NITT- swallowing up scared, often fat, newbies and spitting out uncouth bags of bones. Of course, our high-flying, smooth-talking, hotshot director has made a lot of cosmetic changes to our campus, none of it seems to affect the nature of the beast. He tried, he failed. Some of his latest attempts that catch one's attention are listed as follows:

1. Generators installed in Garnet hostel. They work only in the presence of external power supply.
2. The Second Gate (the one near Thuvakudi) is now a brick wall. This is to ensure that Opal can be attacked only from the inside.
3. The main gate is inaccessible by car, bus, truck, auto or foot, because of a humongous concrete structure that has been placed in front of it. Some say it will become a fly-over, others argue that it is a monument in honour of the director, yet others think that it's the Stairway to Heaven.
4. The new gate had an ominous sign in front of it that read "No Entry for Way Out". Now, "No Entry" has been scratched out. It reads "#### Way Out".

Other, equally notable, changes:

1. Motal Bambos (more commonly known as The Dhaba) now sells Chiken Role, Egg Role and Veg Role. They now serve their delicacies in fancy pink and blue plates, as opposed to leaves earlier.
2. Good Old 'Azzez Briyani' has now become "Selvam Multi-Hussain Restaurant". They sell Pappey Corn soup and Grab Masala.

I'll keep updating the list as more changes come our way.
It is, after all, the only constant (apart from crap at the mess).

What I'm doing now

Music in my head: Fovea Hex- Neither Speak Nor Remain Silent
Today's weather: Artificially warmed.

This is where things stand, at the moment.
I'm going to rewatch Avatar tomorrow morning. I didn't have enough the first time. When I go back to college, I'm sure someone will have downloaded the BluRay Rip (Internet Cops, it wasn't me) and I'll watch it over and over again.
I'm listening to Steven Wilson's top 50 albums, on a euphoric post PT high (click here for the list) and there's a lot of interesting stuff in there- and I'm particularly enjoying the brand of minimalist music- drone, doom etc. that he's recommended. Thanks SW.
I watched 3 Idiots a couple of days back, and enjoyed it. It's almost nothing like 5 point someone, but I liked it all the same. I could point out a million inconsistencies, but I am not a cynic, so all of you go and watch the movie (I'll be waiting for my cheque, Mr. Chopra).
And I am wrapped up in bed as I am every winter, watching Battlestar Galactica, Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Simpsons, and whatever is on TV. I'm also reading a lot- the low point being Dan Brown's new book, which was stereotypical conspiracy theory, with the worst anti-climax yet, and that includes the ending to Angels and Demons. I read a few Robin Cook books- average, and re-read Shantaram, enjoyable as always.
End of transmission.

Buzz Off

Music in my head: Harmonium - Vert
Today's weather: Like the vicinity of yesterday's sambar in a dumpster.

They buzz around, the flying fiends,
And, oh! But you can’t hear them.
They stalk you now, as you read,
Even as you condemn them.
They probe and sense and size you up,
Mandibles they slowly unsheathe,
And wide-mouthed and starry-eyed,
Into your neck, they sink their teeth.
You feel the sting, you see the thing
Chewing up your sensitive skin.
You swat away, you flail away,
You squish the life right out of him.
But, oh! His work’s already done,
A little red spot- his prize.
And the next morning you open your eyes,
Look in the mirror- surprise, surprise!
A little world map burnt into your side,
Ah! Look, here’s good old Trichy.
The Doc tells you- “It’s insect pee,
You’ve sensitive skin? That’s a pity.”
Now every time you turn your head,
There’s searing pain, and one thought,
That little David felled the giant
With nothing more than a slingshot.

Nursery Cryme

Music in my head: Opeth - The Grand Conjuration
Today's weather: Sweatbox day.

Little beads of perspiration;
Going drip drip drip.
When there's no water all around
That I could sip sip sip.
And there's no electricity so that
The fan could spin spin spin.
And I'd be burned to ash outside
So I stay in in in.
A special Sunday with seven hours
Of power cut cut cut.
Take your sadistic smile and shove it
Up your butt butt butt.
Write a cheque for at least a grand
Send it to me me me.
A battery-inverter set from
The visions I see see see...
Would finally spring to vigorous life
And end this triplicate refrain.
And all the King's horses and all the King's men
Would never ever be the same again.

But Brutus is an honourable man

Music in my head: The Mayfield Four - Eden
Today's weather: Slushy

My friend next door became an Indian Oil Baabu yesterday. A year from now he'll chewing paan and pushing papers, just like the esteemed administration at our own institute.
Although, of course, I'm very happy for my friend (whose butt in about twice its original size from a veritable artillery barrage of myriad shoe sizes), my lack of a really firmly fixed future leaves me, like the rest of us, a hardened cynic. Thus, now, I will bitch about our administration and their impressive inefficiency.
Starting with the Academic Department. I wanted to have my transcript and grade cards printed out. I went to bear man.
1 pm, July 23, Bear Man: Come at 2:30.
2:30 pm, July 23, Bear Man : Come at 4:30.
4:30 pm, July 23, Bear Man : Come tomorrow.
9 am, July 24, Bear Man : What, you did not inform me yesterday. Come at 2:30.
Pattern of July 23 repeats.
Pattern of July 23 repeats again on July 26.
I get my grade cards at 4:30 on July 26.
Pattern of July 23 repeats again on July 27, for the transcript.
In my frustration, I decided not go go again for two days. I'll go tomorrow, and you can guess what's going to happen.

Moving on to the computer support group. I was trying to access the Xilinx website, and I got a huge red flashing warning which informed me that I was being a naughty boy and trying to watch download pornography. I half expected a hand to magically spring out of the computer and spank me.
Au Contraire, the following was proudly splashed along with other notices at the most happening place in college, the juice shop (go ahead, laugh at us).
That is, of course, 'educational', but Brutus is an honourable man.

And while I was stranded at the juice stall, in the pouring rain, this is what I saw.
A T-shirt that says 'Hard and Dirty, Extremely Furny'. Furny brownies to anyone who can tell me what it means. A walking testament of the lack of real pornography, and the abundance of 'hot mallu aunties in red sari' on youtube, which, of course, is again a testament to our Brutus' honour.

Another furny guy lost his pen drive. This is how he appeals to the masses for help.
And one more year to go. It is certainly not 'a great pleasure to me'.
But then again...

Desert Haiku

Music in my head: Sigur Rós - Milanó
Today's weather: Dusty, Windy, Trichy

(This is a set of Haikus. Notice that the syllable count is 3-5-3 in the first one, 5-7-5 in the second one and 7-9-7 in the third one, all just for fun. I call it a progressive haiku.)

Matted hair,
Dust winds are blowing,
Dandruff born.

My back is sweaty,
Sunshine burning my skin up,
As I walk around.

Was caught in sticky red tape,
When I tried to pay the fees today,
I look beautiful waxed.

My dusty wasteland

Music in my head: The Mars Volta - Eriatarka
Today's weather: Dusty, windy, guess where?

If you book a prepaid taxi
To go to the railway station,
Cater for some extra change,
For rest and relaxation.
A man grabbed the ticket
Right out of my clenched fist,
Then he rolled my trolley on
Towards a man with a list
Of taxis that were idling,
Waiting for someone
To get onto the rickety machine
So they could have some fun.
I gave the trolley pusher
Twenty Indian Rupees.
I felt like Shantaram then,
He beamed and pocketed his fees.
Onto the taxi ride then,
It's lucky I didn't end up dead,
As the driver pulled a Rajini
With his hands behind his head.
High speed turns he negotiated
With a sudden flick of his hand.
I was beyond relieved when he
Pulled into the Station's taxi stand.
"Driver tip", he asked audaciously,
I pulled out ten rupees this time.
He stared at the tenner for a while,
Then at me, with contempt, the slime.
I just walked towards the platform,
My train for Trichy was at ten.
It was just eight o'clock,
I didn't know what to do till then.,
Until I found a waiting room,
Which had a power supply, hurray!
So I powered on my computer,
And replied to e-mails I received today,
Then fooled around on Facebook,
Until the train came around.
I got my ticket checked an then
In the thambi rhythm, I was drowned.

Beedi Irukka?

Music in my head: Steve Von Til- The Grave is a Grim Horse
Today's weather: Melancholy

It was, to say the least, a grim affair. A black armband would have been the final touch. A party, my prof had called it.

I have to explain to you a few things about my prof before I proceed. He is around 25, has long hair, wears ripped jeans, chain-smokes and listens to 70s prog. He would've been me except for the smoking, the hair colour and the missing love handles. That's why I was so taken with him right from first sight- don't mistake this for anything else, it was just pure macho guy love. I had to stay at his mum's place at Nantes overnight after missing the last train to Saint-Nazaire. In the midst of a long and awkward silence, which I am quite used to now that I've been here so long, in an attempt to make some conversation, I asked her if her son lives alone. I did this because I had to spend a night at his place as well- I was getting there on a public holiday. She answered, and I quote- "He live alone. He live with Francesca (name changed), but she go away. Now he sad."

He was, indeed, living alone when I got here. But somewhere down the line, I don't exactly know when, he met another girl. I had seen her once, when she came to pick him up from the lab. I, of course, said my bonjours and tres biens. And I was quite taken with her too. So when he mentioned the party to me, I secretly jumped for joy, all the while maintaining a nonchalantly cool demeanor. Party means eye candy, and at his house, it also means ear candy- he also has a record player and among others, an In the Court of the Crimson King 1983 reissue LP.

And then the slap across the face. I fond myself at a restaurant near his house, sitting at a table with an average diner age of about 60. Needless to say, only one person in ten, conforming to the ratio here in Saint-Nazaire, knew enough English to conduct a primitive conversation. Thankfully, I was seated between two such people, my prof and another old prof.

I went around shaking hands and saying bonjour for a while and retired to my chair. A couple of minutes later the old prof (OP) joins me. I smile my fake French smile and start thinking of things to say. He initiates the conversation.

OP: Salut! Comment ca va?
Me: Oui, tres bien. Ca va?
OP: Oui, Oui, bien. (beaming) You speak ze goot Francaise.
Me: (polite smile) That's all the French I know. Je parle pas francaise.
OP: Ha ha ha! You are from India?
Me: Yes.
(Some tedious conversation about where in India I am from, and how one of his friends found Delhi beautiful, hot and polluted.)
OP: You know ze beedi?
Me: Pardon?
OP: Ze beedi, you smoke, like so (mimes smoking).
Me: Ah! Yes, yes.
OP: Is very goot. My friend bring back beedi from India.
Me: Okay. I don't smoke, so I don't know.
OP: (Regards me curiously) Beedi is a very... ah... very... (defeated smile) goot.
Me: Okay.
OP: It is, how you say, illegal here.
Me: Oh!
OP: But my friend bring some, and it goot. You can buy in ze Nantes and Paris, but is ze expensive.
Me: Okay.
(The conversation switched to other mundane things.)

The food was not exactly my cup of tea. I hate seafood, Saint- Nazaire is primarily a fishing port. So I had the chicken salad and a weird Greek dish with a chicken leg wrapped in a leaf. The dessert was decent, chocolate mousse and lemon souffle. And the wine was, apparently, excellent. I had a glass, but I lack previous wine-tasting experience, and hence I am not a qualified judge.

Anyway, on the bus on my way back, I started pondering, as I usually do, about how the Europeans are so weird (OP might be pondering about how Indians are so weird at this very instant). Beedis are in high demand here. A single beedi costs more than a meal. And they buy it, just because it is illegal. I'm no expert here, but I always thought that beedis were bought for want of resources to buy cigarettes, and yet, this anomaly, this abomination.

I think I'll be glad to be rid of these little abnormalitites and finally return to our own desi idiosyncrasies.

Drilldoze

Music in my head: The Who - Quadrophenia
Today's weather: Like Trichy in December.

I was having a very nice dream.
I had dozed off after eating two cheeseburgers. The time was around 6 pm as far as I can remember. And like I said, I was in the middle of a very nice dream, which, of course, I cannot recall now. I had been listening to Dark Side of the Moon in loop mode for the past two hours, and the music was still playing when I went off to sleep.
I can't be sure of this, but somewhere in the middle of my siesta, I thought I heard the intro to Time being played intermittently. And then thought I heard some really heavy beats. I must've assumed, all the while in a sub-conscious state, mind you, that the guys with Afros in the wing must be playing their annoying Bob Marley remixes.
The sounds must have grown louder and at some point I must have switched to conscious mode. I immediately heard a loud alarm (just like the intro of Time) and heavy fists banging desperately on my door. I could also hear running footsteps in the corridor. I jumped to my feet, ran to the door and opened it.
There stood a huge black woman, the prototypical hollywood black matriarch. She proceeds to grab me by the shoulders and give me thorough shake before going on into an angry monologue in rapid French. I can usually pick up random words here and there, but in this case I was totally lost.
The shaking had woken me up and I understood that it was a drill. Without a word, scared as a mouse, I put on my slippers and followed her out.
Once we were outside, I think my cute looks and just-out-of-bed hairstyle melted her heart of stone (no reference to the movie they used to show on CW, if anyone remembers the channel). She spoke, again in rapid French, but this time accompanied by a smile. I just said 'Je parle pas francaise' and 'I'm sorry!' and looked the other way, still slightly intimidated by both her bulk and her deep voice.
I don't know how long I stood out there. I was mostly staring at the floor. There were only a handful of people. Three black guys, a couple of chinese girls, a few Arab ladies and me. Everyone else had left for their respective homes, as the summer vacations here started on the 30th of June.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the ringing stopped.
I looked up for an instant, beamed at her, and almost ran to my room, never once looking back.

Prozac Wanted

Music in my head: Tool - Schism
Today's weather: Cold on the outside, warm on the inside.

Five more days.
And its over.
Fifty days of Europe.
Fifty days of bearing the crushing weight of the collective expectations of disillusioned, perhaps deranged, yet naive fools who believe that Europe is Eurotrip.
Fifty days of gawking at anything that moved, and that includes swanky convertibles.
Fifty days of eating bland Euro trash, and putting mayonnaise on anything that resembled anything that was even remotely edible- literally, not, as the disillusioned and the deranged might impishly conceive, figuratively.
Fifty days of internet connections faster than the speed of thought.
Fifty days of breathing clean, cold air, that smells like fresh croissants in the morning, stinks like seafood in the afternoon, and has no particular odour in the evening.
Fifty days of smiling facades beaming at other smiling facades in a society that is itself a facade draped over a freakishly fragile, seemingly sophisticated porcelain dummy that is set precariously at the very edge of a mantelpiece in a little wooden villa bang on top of a fault in the Earth's crust.
Fifty days of larger than life gangster graffiti and smaller than peanut average intellect.
Fifty days of first feeling minuscule about who I was and where I was from, and slowly growing to eclipse the 'civilised' and 'cultured'.
Fifty days now, and who knows how many more, of feeling minuscule about the unaccomplished, the very same naive expectations that I naively derided.
Fifty days of forty days and ten nights.
And its over.
Five more days.
I'd love to finally leave, but I'd love to stay.
But I'd rather leave.

Renaissance

Music in my head: King Crimson - Fallen Angel
Today's weather: Hot! As it has been for the past few days.

Went through Barrons from A to P,
And the Foundation Trilogy
In a week, cut off from humanity
Toeing the line of insanity.

Thousands of pages had I read,
Including Pamuk's 'My Name is Red'.
And most of what Mr. Barron said
In printouts strewn all over my bed.

Until a learned friend next door
Told me I need fret no more;
A computer sale since day before-
They're selling computers and chargers galore.

So I ran out to said hallowed place,
With hope writ large upon my face,
And there at the end of the maze
Was my ticket back to time and space.

I reached out to grab it with both my hands,
The Universal Charger for multiple brands.
I was so happy that I could dance,
But no time for that, I had other plans.

I came back and plugged it in.
Yes! My comp's alive and kickin'.
What a horrid week it's been.
Finally, I'm awake, I'm livin'.

Charged Down

Music in my head: The whirring of a high speed synchronous motor.
Today's weather: Surprisingly, hot.

I am probably going through one of my leanest periods- mental health and happiness-wise. I had read about it in magazines and other blogs, and laughed at it; but I am laughing no more. This is by far the most depressed I have ever been in my life.
My charger had been scarred by ill-use since over a year now. I had three layers of tape over it when I left India. Two weeks ago I was taken by surprise as my computer turned off bang in the middle of a Whose Line Episode. For three days, I managed by contorting the wire to a shape in which the laptop had power. On the fourth day I ran out of shapes. I took out all the tape and tied two random loose wires together and it sputtered to life again. It survived for four days, and then gave up. The loose wires were now two little strands. I tried to keep them in contact with a small wire I nicked from the lab, but to no avail. As a last resort, I brought it to the lab where I soldered a length of wire onto two strands of wire that I had newly salvaged by cutting off the plastic. The light blinked for five seconds, then it was gone. I tried all possible things for another hour, and finally gave up.
In a depressed frenzy that evening, I sucked all the life out of my senile battery with five straight episodes of Whose Line. It was only nine in the evening when it died on me, and I had nothing to do. I walked around outside for an hour, wallowing in self pity.
I came back in and started reading a book. I slept off in half an hour. The book was called 'Sun at midnight', and it was nothing more than a soap opera based in Antarctica. I plummeted into greater depths of depression each day as I continued to follow the story of a pregnant superwoman in Antarctica being hit on by a super hunk and a sensitive sissy.
Then one day, as I was walking down the corridor I noticed a Dell Inspiron in the room next to mine. I knew the guy from all the fake hellos I offered him on our past meetings, and asked him if I could have his charger every night before he went to sleep. He happily obliged and things came back to normal.
But only for four days.
Now he is at home with his charger and I am wallowing in self pity again. I printed out Asimov's 'Foundation' so that I, at least, have something decent to read. I spend more time working. I don't go back to the room for lunch any more. I drink five cups of coffee everyday. I count off days to the weekend.
The weekend is the release. Last weekend was lovely. I went to Disneyland Paris with my friend Duck and his family. To say the least, I felt like a little kid again. I went on all the roller coasters, it was my first 360 degree experience. I even posed for a picture with Captain Jack Sparrow. But the real highlight of the trip was the pukka desi khana that Duck's mum cooked for us. Basmati rice, dal, sabji and achar with some spicy mixture on the side, my tastebuds felt like they died and went to heaven, after 5 weeks of trying to differentiate between cheeses of different flavours and sampling mayonnaise mixed with varying quantities of pepper.
So here I am again, waiting out another day, thinking of that veritable orgasm for my mouth. Tomorrow, I am going to Paris again. I'll spend the night with Duck and Arya, they're in Amiens, an hour from Paris. We'll go to Versaille on the weekend. Frankly, I don't care where we go, as long as we go.
One more weekend to look forward to after this one, and then home sweet home baby!

Fire Drill + Idle Mind

Music in my head: This Will Destroy- A Three Legged Workhorse
Today's weather: A big puddle.

Noisy alarm goes out of control,
Scares us out of our wits.
We run out into the corridor,
"It's a fire drill, step to, you gits!",

Says the big man in overalls,
Who has a bulbous nose.
I don't know why I'm rhyming now,
I could've just used prose.

But every man's first fire drill
Must be etched in stone.
And as I stand and ponder this,
The big man seemed to've grown.

"Close the door and follow me,"
The ape, he says to me.
And terrified by his barrel chest
I silently agree.

Fluorescent markers light our way
To the nearest exit.
I make my way out the door,
Still dazed by all this shit.

And I see the Frenchies lined up there,
Laughing, flirting, yapping on.
A couple of chinks were eating out
Of a picnic basket they'd brought along.

Well, a fire drill is more than just
A cumbersome activity.
"A fire drill everyday," I thought,
As I joined in the festivity.