Over the years, I’d become used to the idea of being the one engaged in a perpetually bootless pursuit of tail. That I was not to be one of the Don Juans of the world was driven into me when I was about seventeen, and the first girl I’d ever tried to ask out gave me the raspberry (a story that merits a post of its own, surely). She spoke in no uncertain terms of what she thought of me, and went on to elaborate on the defects in my demeanour, outer crust and general appearance to all and sundry.
Therefore, if an egg (or for that matter, a bean or a crumpet) had walked up to me a couple of years ago and asked me if anybody had ever bothered to try and pick me up from a pub, I would have laughed at him. I would have asked if he were trying to mock me, and warned him with the cautionary tale of what happened to the little children who mocked the Prophet Eliza (they were eaten by bears, in case the reader was wondering).
But then, nobody ever told me there are girls, and there are girls. It’s the latter that I shall talk of today – the women who turned the hunter into the hunted.
Cut to: Northern Ireland, March 2006.
Almost a year ago, a few friends and I decided to pop in and pay Gerry Adams and his drinking mates in the IRA a short visit. After three exhausting days spent photographing IRA graffiti in Derry, Ballycastle, Giant’s causeway and Belfast, we decide to partake of the blushed hippocrene at one of the numerous taverns that dot every British (and Irish) city.
The Irish, I must hasten to add, are among the friendliest people that a chap can hope to meet. It is nigh impossible to go anywhere in Ireland without being drawn into a conversation with the locals – whether one likes it or not. So, we were not surprised when the three middle-aged people at the other end of our table began to ask us what we were doing in Belfast.
It was as one of the chaps decided that the best way to regale my German friend would be to show him pictures he’d taken of the holocaust memorial in Berlin that the lady with them began to talk with me.
She was probably in her forties, and as unlike Stifler’s mom as was humanly possible. After disposing of the preliminaries, she began to tell me about how she worked for the Revenue Service, and how her life was often very lonely and boring. I assented mutely, thinking nothing of it whatsoever. When she began to talk of how rarely she managed to get out and meet nice people, I began to grow slightly uncomfortable. A few minutes from then, I felt a hand grab my arm ever so slightly.
If life were a Shakespearean play, I would probably written, ‘Exit Hurriedly, followed by bear’ and that would have been that. But it was not, and I began to signal to my friends that now may be a good time to check some other pub out. They apparently found my discomfort highly amusing. But, thankfully, my German friend’s patience was running thin in the face of the other chappie’s almost inexhaustible pictures from Berlin, and the exit I had been fervently wishing for was executed with great finesse.
Cut to: England, September 2006.
Ryanair, as I have had cause to mention earlier in these dispatches, has this distressing habit of flying out of airports in the middle of nowhere. It was while staying the night waiting for one of these flights in a nondescript little place called Bishop’s Strotford (Ryanair called it London) that I decided to grab an ounce or two of a restorer at this quiet, little pub.
I walked into the pub, a Harry Potter held close to my chest. After asking the bartender to dispense a pint of the needful, I settled down in a cosy nook and began to read of what would indeed happen to the horcruxes. It was as I was getting to the particularly exciting bit about Ron snogging Lavender (yes, I’m an adolescent, and found parts of Harry Potter 6 to be the very best erotica I’d ever read) that I heard a voice pipe down towards me from the next table.
I turned around to espy a plump Englishwoman in her early thirties.
‘Is that a nice book?’, said she.
‘Oh, I say, yeah, rather!’, said I, trying to hide the cover of the book. I was not able to find the adult cover to HP 6, y’see.
She smiled, and relapsed into silence.
And I went back to the book. I had just begun to contemplate how generally awesome it would have been if I’d studied at a school like Hogwarts where one could snog Emma Watson in the common room for all it was worth when the voice piped up again.
‘It’s considered anti-social in this country to read books at a pub’
‘Er… I’m sorry…it’s like, I was here alone, and so I thought I’d kinda catch up with my reading. There, I’ve closed it.’, I said, rather flustered at having apparently committed a faux pas in the land of the stiff upper lip.
She continued unabated, ‘So where are you from? My name's *^^(‘
After we’d exchanged names, and I’d told her I was from India, she told me that she’d always wanted to visit India, and that it was so very mystical.
I grinned non-committaly.
‘You know, the Kama Sutra and stuff, it’s really cool’, said she.
I hummed and hawed, for the Kama Sutra and I had never been formally introduced. My Kama Sutra education was limited to a few clips of Indira Verma watched surreptitiously on a mate's mobile phone.
It was then that she spoke again.
‘So do you want to see the sea? I could take you’
‘Er…I’ve lived in coastal cities all my life, so I’ve seen more of the sea than the average beach bum. Besides, British beaches are rather chilly at this time of night, I believe’, I said. The terrible memories of Belfast had begun to rear its ugly head again.
‘Ah ok…’, she said, ‘so, where are you staying at?’
‘Er… me? I’m at this B&B called the Phoenix Lodge, right down the street.’
‘Oh… you don’t have to stay there tonight, you know.’
I couldn’t help but notice the maniacal glint in her eyes, and I must admit it scared me some.
I gulped down my drink, looked at my watch and said, ‘Oh my god! Look at the time, its almost midnight. I’ve got a really early flight on the morrow. I better rush to bed now.’
Cut to: Germany, last week
I was at one of Germany’s prettiest cities last week, enjoying the hospitality of a friend who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the best night-spots in town. It was at one of these places – which, the connoisseur may wish to note, offers the cheapest alcohol outside of Goa – that we were having a tipple. We had just ended an extremely interesting conversation with an Irish chap who seemed to have taken it upon himself to tell us his life story. It was then that we noticed this middle-aged woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Chyna walking towards us. I observed that she was sporting a bindi.
She walked up towards me, and folded her hands in a Namaste.
Being a well-bred, young Indian boy, I folded my hands and wished her a cheery namaste. Now that I think of it, Messrs. Guinness and Jaegermeister may have been responsible for the namaste being a tad more effusive than planned.
She immediately sat down next to me, and began stroking my cheek. To say I was terrified would be an understatement. Though I was aware that a man always holds the trump card in encounters of this nature, I was also aware of the muscles that rippled within her t-shirt. I could not bring myself to contemplate what would ensue if I pushed the woman away, and therefore contented myself with little shoves accompanied by ‘Please… what’s happening?’.
She then began to sidle closer to me, and was pretty much all over me – which felt rather like having a sackful of coals thrown right at your face.
At this point, my friend decided to intervene.
‘Listen, why don’t you just go away?’, said my friend.
‘You don’t know anything about his culture. Don’t shove your oar in here; fuck off!’, said the well-muscled one.
I made a mental note to murder whichever Indian gave her the idea that it was in our culture to appreciate the act of ugly, unknown women thrusting themselves upon us.
It took about two minutes, a lot of pleading, and something I did not follow, before the woman walked away looking particularly malevolent.
Note: Pretty women are urged to note that ugly is the operative word here. I do not mind, nay, I would welcome pretty women – unknown or otherwise – who decide to feel me up, or otherwise hit on me. For some reason unbeknownst to me, the only women who seem to be even remotely interested in a piece of the Warrier are either middle-aged, ugly, or both. Hint hint!!
The author has been single since he can remember. Pretty women (age no bar, caste no bar, race no bar, height no bar as long as you don’t mind midgets) are encouraged to consider the exciting possibilities that this unfortunate concatenation of circumstances present them with.
Showing posts with label UK. Show all posts
Showing posts with label UK. Show all posts
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Traveller's blues
To the fine folk who visit my blog regularly:
This may be the last post I'll be writing in a while. I'm in a bit of a blue funk right now, and find myself incapable of thinking cheery thoughts - or thoughts, even. Ah well, here goes, then... Hope I get out of this here funk sooner rather than later!
Living in a country without speaking the lingua franca is never the most pleasant experience. Travelling can be even tougher, when one has to figure directions out. It gets even worse when you happen to be me. The Warriers have never been, since the dawn of time, a race capable of sniffing directions out like one of those bloodhounds you always hear of (assuming bloodhounds sniff directions). Philosophers, yes. Saints, quite possibly. But intrepid adventurers we never have been and never will be.
When I first flew in to Germany, I decided to save the ten quid that I would have to shell out to get a Berlitz German phrasebook - an act of parsimony I shall forever regret. But I never regretted it more than when I was to fly to Glasgow from Duesseldorf.
My RyanAir ticket - curse their black hearts - informed me that I was expected to be among those present for the ritual sniffing of one's genitals by the Alsatians from the Bomb squad at an airport called the Duesseldorf Weeze Flughafen. Flughafen, I assumed, was the operative term. All I had to do prior to boarding the airplane, I assumed, would be to go to this airport in Duesseldorf called Flughafen - a task within the reach of even one as inept as me.
In fact, I observed that the authorities had been kind enough to draw a (rather ugly) facsimile of an aeroplane to indicate the direction to this Flughafen airport. It was, therefore, with a song on my lips, that I alighted at the railway station conveniently attached to this airport that was called Flughafen.
Five minutes into the airport, however, I began to smell a rotten fish - an aroma that made me hark back to the Shastri Nagar fish market. (I didn't actually smell a rotten fish, except metaphorically). It was a confused self that walked towards the helpdesk.
I decided to try my pidgin German out.
'Hallo, ich bin Ryanair flight FR8789.'
The chap at the counter could not repress a laugh.
'What? You're a Ryanair flight? (Oh so that's what it meant)!'
'Er...no, I...want.. to... get... Ryanair...flight...to...Glasgow!'
I spoke in loud, slow and ringing tones - accompanied by feverish movements of every appendage of my body. Though I have never understood how this would make things any better, and why people do it - but I can't help myself doing it.
The chap at the other end of the table, watched me do the cha-cha-cha with thinly veiled amusement, and spoke,
'Well, you're at the wrong airport, mate. Ryanair flights use the Duesseldorf Weeze Flughafen'
'Another airport named Flughafen?', asked I, shocked that they could do something like this in one city.
'No, Flughafen is the word from airport'. said the bloke, rather like a chap measuring a lunatic for a straitjacket would.
It was then that a line I read long ago in the Lonely Planet came back to hit me - 'In German, it is not just the proper nouns that are capitalised.'
I asked the chap, reaching a state of panic, 'So, where is this other Flughafen?'
'Just about a hundred kilometres from here'
'What!!?? Then why do they call it Duesseldorf?'
'Well, the question you should ask yourself is why you choose to fly RyanAir?'
'Er..because its cheap!'
'Well, now you know WHY its cheap!'
And all this while, I thought it was cheap because they used slave labour to fly the airplanes. (Later, sources assured me that this was also the case).
It was thus a chastened self - cursing my parsimony for not having got that Berlitz phrase-book - that travelled to Berlin.
P.S: Attempts to confirm that this was a deep-dyed conspiracy hatched by George W Bush, Tony Blair, and Ahmed Chalabi expressly to discomfit me have now come to nought.
This may be the last post I'll be writing in a while. I'm in a bit of a blue funk right now, and find myself incapable of thinking cheery thoughts - or thoughts, even. Ah well, here goes, then... Hope I get out of this here funk sooner rather than later!
Living in a country without speaking the lingua franca is never the most pleasant experience. Travelling can be even tougher, when one has to figure directions out. It gets even worse when you happen to be me. The Warriers have never been, since the dawn of time, a race capable of sniffing directions out like one of those bloodhounds you always hear of (assuming bloodhounds sniff directions). Philosophers, yes. Saints, quite possibly. But intrepid adventurers we never have been and never will be.
When I first flew in to Germany, I decided to save the ten quid that I would have to shell out to get a Berlitz German phrasebook - an act of parsimony I shall forever regret. But I never regretted it more than when I was to fly to Glasgow from Duesseldorf.
My RyanAir ticket - curse their black hearts - informed me that I was expected to be among those present for the ritual sniffing of one's genitals by the Alsatians from the Bomb squad at an airport called the Duesseldorf Weeze Flughafen. Flughafen, I assumed, was the operative term. All I had to do prior to boarding the airplane, I assumed, would be to go to this airport in Duesseldorf called Flughafen - a task within the reach of even one as inept as me.
In fact, I observed that the authorities had been kind enough to draw a (rather ugly) facsimile of an aeroplane to indicate the direction to this Flughafen airport. It was, therefore, with a song on my lips, that I alighted at the railway station conveniently attached to this airport that was called Flughafen.
Five minutes into the airport, however, I began to smell a rotten fish - an aroma that made me hark back to the Shastri Nagar fish market. (I didn't actually smell a rotten fish, except metaphorically). It was a confused self that walked towards the helpdesk.
I decided to try my pidgin German out.
'Hallo, ich bin Ryanair flight FR8789.'
The chap at the counter could not repress a laugh.
'What? You're a Ryanair flight? (Oh so that's what it meant)!'
'Er...no, I...want.. to... get... Ryanair...flight...to...Glasgow!'
I spoke in loud, slow and ringing tones - accompanied by feverish movements of every appendage of my body. Though I have never understood how this would make things any better, and why people do it - but I can't help myself doing it.
The chap at the other end of the table, watched me do the cha-cha-cha with thinly veiled amusement, and spoke,
'Well, you're at the wrong airport, mate. Ryanair flights use the Duesseldorf Weeze Flughafen'
'Another airport named Flughafen?', asked I, shocked that they could do something like this in one city.
'No, Flughafen is the word from airport'. said the bloke, rather like a chap measuring a lunatic for a straitjacket would.
It was then that a line I read long ago in the Lonely Planet came back to hit me - 'In German, it is not just the proper nouns that are capitalised.'
I asked the chap, reaching a state of panic, 'So, where is this other Flughafen?'
'Just about a hundred kilometres from here'
'What!!?? Then why do they call it Duesseldorf?'
'Well, the question you should ask yourself is why you choose to fly RyanAir?'
'Er..because its cheap!'
'Well, now you know WHY its cheap!'
And all this while, I thought it was cheap because they used slave labour to fly the airplanes. (Later, sources assured me that this was also the case).
It was thus a chastened self - cursing my parsimony for not having got that Berlitz phrase-book - that travelled to Berlin.
P.S: Attempts to confirm that this was a deep-dyed conspiracy hatched by George W Bush, Tony Blair, and Ahmed Chalabi expressly to discomfit me have now come to nought.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Homo ITconsultantus: The Hard Life of an IT consultant
According to my philosopher and guide, Mr. Jorge Cham (the lunatic who sketches PhD Comics), grad school is the last refuge of the kind of chappie who wishes to postpone his entry into the real world (indefinitely, if possible).
I do not deny that I am inspired by the idea of avoiding any contact with people in the real world.
I am satisfied with the little all that grad school funding provides me, and do not direct envious glances at other blokes my age who earn packets working in IT consultancies. I do not begrudge them their Ford Fiestas and Renault Laguna. I wave cheerily at them as they pass me by as I ride my BSA SLR to the shopping centre. At no time do I curse my luck when I try to haggle with the blighter at the desi store to allow me to add another two quid to my tab.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’d like the money, but I’d rather remain poor than live the hard life of an IT consultant. For instance, look at NS’ terribly tough life. Well, you can’t do that, considering you don’t know NS, and have not had the opportunity to hob-nob with the aforementioned luminary. And therefore, may I present to you the hero of this little story, NS.
NS is a good friend of mine who currently stays in our kitchen – or on the bedroom floor if the wafting aroma of curry, Chinese sauce and African god-knows-what gets a trifle too strong for him. He is, as I have had reason to mention earlier, a cog in the wheel of commerce. He is the lynchpin upon whom the fortunes of a major IT consultancy rest, if lynchpin is the word I want.
As I write this, NS’ day has just begun. As the sun sets on a grad student’s night, the white-collar worker’s sun begins to rise. That NS is awake is made abundantly clear by the fact that the stench of his eau-de-cologne has spread across most of the flat.
The first major trial he faces is that he has to shave. Unlike unkempt grad students, IT consultants cannot look like something the cat dragged in. Not for him the week-old scraggy stubble that adorns this grad student’s visage. After having shaved, he has to rush to work at 6:54 in the morning.
What he does inside the corridors of the consulting company is a sealed book to me. I would assume it involves plenty of veiled women smelling of Chanel 5 pinching trade secrets. After eight hours spent writing reports and keeping the aforementioned veiled women at bay, NS drives to the kebab shop.
NS does not like the kebabs he gets there. He avers that it tastes like sandpaper, and this chronicler can, from first-hand experience, attest to the veracity of his opinion.
Not many kebab shops can butcher a kebab as well as this shop does. But then, not many kebab shops have Polish shop assistants who look as good as the one at this shop does.
If NS were a mere graduate student, he would decide to find another kebab shop and let the Polish chick vanish out of his life. But them IT consultants can take the rough with the smooth, not to mention tolerate the presence of large quantities of sandpaper in the intestinal linings. Besides, he has to practise his Polish!
After that trial by food, NS arrives home to more work.
He starts off by yawning loudly, preparatory to a hard night that will be spent in the company of Gantt charts (or whichever other weird creature of a lesser God that the world’s workers deal with on a daily basis).
He then announces that he plans to take a short nap for fifteen minutes in order to recharge his batteries. In order to ensure that he sticks to his grueling schedule, he sets an alarm on his mobile phone.
NS subscribes to the Snooze school of productivity enhancement. In order to test the efficacy of mobile phone snooze buttons, he decides to use it once.
And twice…
And a third time, just to make sure there are no bugs in the mobile phone’s implementation of the snooze function…
And maybe a fourth time…
Ad nauseum, ad infinitum…
However, this intensive testing schedule is interrupted by his better half who calls after he has used the snooze button approximately twenty times.
NS then speaks with his better half. The contents of the conversation are unfortunately unclear to the raconteur as the language spoken is Great Britain’s new lingua franca, Polish. However, NS soon manages to convince his girlfriend that work, that cruel taskmaster, calls out to him. He switches the alarm on again – so that he can recover from the conversation.
After about half an hour, NS arises and decides that enough work has been done for the evening, and decides to call it a night.
After having spent the last couple of months monitoring the hard life of an IT consultant, this author has decided that his considerable talents shall be directed towards the furthering of scientific research.
P.S:
Besides, I’m virtually unemployable as no company would be particularly interested in hiring a chap who spends all evening monitoring the working/sleeping habits of the Homo ITConsultantus, and then spends the rest of the night writing a report on it.
This, on the other hand, shows that I have the perfect temperament to be a procrastinating grad student adept at writing nonsensical reports to please his supervisor.
P.P.S:
If I could maybe add a graph or two to this piece, I could maybe submit this as my weekly progress report to my supervisor.
P.P.P.S:
If I could add a few citations to this, I may soon have a publication in an IEEE journal.
Disclaimer:
The identity of the Homo ITConsultantus has been withheld for security reasons (read: to protect author’s life and limb).
I do not deny that I am inspired by the idea of avoiding any contact with people in the real world.
I am satisfied with the little all that grad school funding provides me, and do not direct envious glances at other blokes my age who earn packets working in IT consultancies. I do not begrudge them their Ford Fiestas and Renault Laguna. I wave cheerily at them as they pass me by as I ride my BSA SLR to the shopping centre. At no time do I curse my luck when I try to haggle with the blighter at the desi store to allow me to add another two quid to my tab.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’d like the money, but I’d rather remain poor than live the hard life of an IT consultant. For instance, look at NS’ terribly tough life. Well, you can’t do that, considering you don’t know NS, and have not had the opportunity to hob-nob with the aforementioned luminary. And therefore, may I present to you the hero of this little story, NS.
NS is a good friend of mine who currently stays in our kitchen – or on the bedroom floor if the wafting aroma of curry, Chinese sauce and African god-knows-what gets a trifle too strong for him. He is, as I have had reason to mention earlier, a cog in the wheel of commerce. He is the lynchpin upon whom the fortunes of a major IT consultancy rest, if lynchpin is the word I want.
As I write this, NS’ day has just begun. As the sun sets on a grad student’s night, the white-collar worker’s sun begins to rise. That NS is awake is made abundantly clear by the fact that the stench of his eau-de-cologne has spread across most of the flat.
The first major trial he faces is that he has to shave. Unlike unkempt grad students, IT consultants cannot look like something the cat dragged in. Not for him the week-old scraggy stubble that adorns this grad student’s visage. After having shaved, he has to rush to work at 6:54 in the morning.
What he does inside the corridors of the consulting company is a sealed book to me. I would assume it involves plenty of veiled women smelling of Chanel 5 pinching trade secrets. After eight hours spent writing reports and keeping the aforementioned veiled women at bay, NS drives to the kebab shop.
NS does not like the kebabs he gets there. He avers that it tastes like sandpaper, and this chronicler can, from first-hand experience, attest to the veracity of his opinion.
Not many kebab shops can butcher a kebab as well as this shop does. But then, not many kebab shops have Polish shop assistants who look as good as the one at this shop does.
If NS were a mere graduate student, he would decide to find another kebab shop and let the Polish chick vanish out of his life. But them IT consultants can take the rough with the smooth, not to mention tolerate the presence of large quantities of sandpaper in the intestinal linings. Besides, he has to practise his Polish!
After that trial by food, NS arrives home to more work.
He starts off by yawning loudly, preparatory to a hard night that will be spent in the company of Gantt charts (or whichever other weird creature of a lesser God that the world’s workers deal with on a daily basis).
He then announces that he plans to take a short nap for fifteen minutes in order to recharge his batteries. In order to ensure that he sticks to his grueling schedule, he sets an alarm on his mobile phone.
NS subscribes to the Snooze school of productivity enhancement. In order to test the efficacy of mobile phone snooze buttons, he decides to use it once.
NS at 2045 hours
And twice…
And a third time, just to make sure there are no bugs in the mobile phone’s implementation of the snooze function…
And maybe a fourth time…
Ad nauseum, ad infinitum…
NS at 2145 hours
However, this intensive testing schedule is interrupted by his better half who calls after he has used the snooze button approximately twenty times.
NS then speaks with his better half. The contents of the conversation are unfortunately unclear to the raconteur as the language spoken is Great Britain’s new lingua franca, Polish. However, NS soon manages to convince his girlfriend that work, that cruel taskmaster, calls out to him. He switches the alarm on again – so that he can recover from the conversation.
NS in converstation with his girlfriend
After about half an hour, NS arises and decides that enough work has been done for the evening, and decides to call it a night.
NS at 2230 hours, after an evening spent hard at work. Note: The subject can be identified by following the direction of the index finger, and must not be confused with the other inanimate objects in the room.
After having spent the last couple of months monitoring the hard life of an IT consultant, this author has decided that his considerable talents shall be directed towards the furthering of scientific research.
P.S:
Besides, I’m virtually unemployable as no company would be particularly interested in hiring a chap who spends all evening monitoring the working/sleeping habits of the Homo ITConsultantus, and then spends the rest of the night writing a report on it.
This, on the other hand, shows that I have the perfect temperament to be a procrastinating grad student adept at writing nonsensical reports to please his supervisor.
P.P.S:
If I could maybe add a graph or two to this piece, I could maybe submit this as my weekly progress report to my supervisor.
P.P.P.S:
If I could add a few citations to this, I may soon have a publication in an IEEE journal.
Disclaimer:
The identity of the Homo ITConsultantus has been withheld for security reasons (read: to protect author’s life and limb).
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Je vais en République Française
I realize that I have left the story of my close encounters with the rowdy kind incomplete. But I am currently in the midst of a hectic trip accross Europe on a shoestring budget.
I was away the last few days pinching pennies and admiring the natural pulchritude (not of the two legged female variety, you perverts) in the Scottish Highlands, and hope to write a travelogue down before I forget it all. I visited castles, lochs and bridges. I drove accross scenic beauty spots. More interestingly, I walked accross a very drunk Inverness at one in the morning, searching for toothpaste, during the course of which:
(a) I was mistaken by some poor drunk souls for Ali Baba - at least I think I was, as I quite distinctly heard them referring to Ali Baba as they expressed an ardent desire to speak with me. Though I could have set things right by telling them that I was actually thief #39 in the story, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour.
(b) I had a long conversation at the taxi rank with another drunk soul, who could not stop thanking me for having defeated England in the one-day series. Though I could have set him right by telling him that it was actually eleven completely unrelated chaps who performed the deed, I thought he was happier assuming I was directly responsible for England's well-deserved humiliation.
(c) I had another long conversation with two Englishmen from London at a pub, during which we discussed Kashmir and Northern Ireland, and how they wished they were not English and could actually visit Northern Ireland without being shot at and murdered.
Upon returning to Edinburgh, I spent a night experiencing (after a long hiatus) the Edinburgh nightlife yesterday, during the course of which:
(a) I watched an Arab do a pole dance. Thank you, Mohammed - I am still trying to erase the unsavoury memories from my head.
(b) I watched as a group of overweight Fijians at the next table magically transformed into rugby players from New Zealand as they tried to - unsuccessfully, if I may add - hit on a friend.
(c) I paid £3.60 in a parking ticket machine, only to realize that parking was free after ten in the night.
So it is a rather sleep-deprived young Warrier that shall attempt to wake up in less than four hours in order to catch a flight to Paris.
I have spent half an hour thinking of how I could describe my feelings at going to arguably the most beautiful city in the world. My grandiloquence has, however, failed me. The verbosity that so characterizes me has deserted me like a fickle mistress. All I can say is - YAYYYYYYYY!!!
Assuming anybody is interested in my travel plans (though I doubt if anybody is - however, since when have I NOT bored people with things they would rather not know), I'm travelling to Versailles, Strasbourg and Heidelberg, before returning home.
After which I set out another short trip to set fire to the birthplace of my old tormentor (from my schooldays), William Shakespeare.
After which I plan to expose to the world the gruesome details of the treatment I received at the hands of a poriki.
After which I face the ire of my supervisor.
Phew!
So, as they say in Deutschland, Fick Deine Mutt... er... I mean, Guten Nacht!
I was away the last few days pinching pennies and admiring the natural pulchritude (not of the two legged female variety, you perverts) in the Scottish Highlands, and hope to write a travelogue down before I forget it all. I visited castles, lochs and bridges. I drove accross scenic beauty spots. More interestingly, I walked accross a very drunk Inverness at one in the morning, searching for toothpaste, during the course of which:
(a) I was mistaken by some poor drunk souls for Ali Baba - at least I think I was, as I quite distinctly heard them referring to Ali Baba as they expressed an ardent desire to speak with me. Though I could have set things right by telling them that I was actually thief #39 in the story, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour.
(b) I had a long conversation at the taxi rank with another drunk soul, who could not stop thanking me for having defeated England in the one-day series. Though I could have set him right by telling him that it was actually eleven completely unrelated chaps who performed the deed, I thought he was happier assuming I was directly responsible for England's well-deserved humiliation.
(c) I had another long conversation with two Englishmen from London at a pub, during which we discussed Kashmir and Northern Ireland, and how they wished they were not English and could actually visit Northern Ireland without being shot at and murdered.
Upon returning to Edinburgh, I spent a night experiencing (after a long hiatus) the Edinburgh nightlife yesterday, during the course of which:
(a) I watched an Arab do a pole dance. Thank you, Mohammed - I am still trying to erase the unsavoury memories from my head.
(b) I watched as a group of overweight Fijians at the next table magically transformed into rugby players from New Zealand as they tried to - unsuccessfully, if I may add - hit on a friend.
(c) I paid £3.60 in a parking ticket machine, only to realize that parking was free after ten in the night.
So it is a rather sleep-deprived young Warrier that shall attempt to wake up in less than four hours in order to catch a flight to Paris.
I have spent half an hour thinking of how I could describe my feelings at going to arguably the most beautiful city in the world. My grandiloquence has, however, failed me. The verbosity that so characterizes me has deserted me like a fickle mistress. All I can say is - YAYYYYYYYY!!!
Assuming anybody is interested in my travel plans (though I doubt if anybody is - however, since when have I NOT bored people with things they would rather not know), I'm travelling to Versailles, Strasbourg and Heidelberg, before returning home.
After which I set out another short trip to set fire to the birthplace of my old tormentor (from my schooldays), William Shakespeare.
After which I plan to expose to the world the gruesome details of the treatment I received at the hands of a poriki.
After which I face the ire of my supervisor.
Phew!
So, as they say in Deutschland, Fick Deine Mutt... er... I mean, Guten Nacht!
Monday, April 24, 2006
Hiatus
Exams have reared their ugly head again. They have arrived again to blight my life, and blot the sun out. The worst thing about being a post-graduate student is that you suddenly realize you're writing exams all over again, though you'd taken a solemn vow over that hot cup of coffee in the neighbourhood tea stall never to write an exam again after you manage to scrape through a Bachelor's degree. And after having taken that vow repeatedly - after the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh semesters, to be precise.
In any case, since I have five exams which determine the fate of (a) my scholarship, (b) my continued status as a student, and (c) my hope of becoming anything other than the right hand man of the local DMK goonda back home, I shall maintain a (hopefully) studious silence until the 29th of April at the very least.
I have a post that I cannot wait to scribble down though (sounds like a cheap advertisement, don't it?). It's called 'Siddhu 2025', keeping in line with the predictions for the future I have been making lately. I hope it stays in mind, and that the big bad world of Quality of Service, UNI, NNI, IPv6 and IPv4 doesn't drive it out of my meagre mind.
&*(^&^&*()! It's 10 26! So, as they say down here in these here parts, Cheers, mates (and matesses - if the word exists)
In any case, since I have five exams which determine the fate of (a) my scholarship, (b) my continued status as a student, and (c) my hope of becoming anything other than the right hand man of the local DMK goonda back home, I shall maintain a (hopefully) studious silence until the 29th of April at the very least.
I have a post that I cannot wait to scribble down though (sounds like a cheap advertisement, don't it?). It's called 'Siddhu 2025', keeping in line with the predictions for the future I have been making lately. I hope it stays in mind, and that the big bad world of Quality of Service, UNI, NNI, IPv6 and IPv4 doesn't drive it out of my meagre mind.
&*(^&^&*()! It's 10 26! So, as they say down here in these here parts, Cheers, mates (and matesses - if the word exists)
Monday, March 13, 2006
Of Prudes, Ashok Singhals, that idiot Bangladeshi imam and other such despicable creatures
Something’s been the matter with me the last few days. I’ve actually been rather serious – a lot more serious than is my wont. Instead of spouting unadulterated bilge that is supposed to elicit guffaws of mirth, I have been spouting unadulterated bilge that is supposed to shock and provoke introspection (though it seems to provoke hasty mouse movements towards the right hand corner of the screen in order to click on that nice, big, red X).
I was racking my brain, trying to think of some inanity that I could wax eloquent on. It was as I was putting my brain through exercise that it was unaccustomed to that I stumbled upon this post by another blogger. (Note: I don’t have her permission to derive inspiration from what she has written, but I hope she approves, and that the judge will not give me more than twenty years of penal servitude for copyright infringement.)
The post was all about a holier-than-thou moral policeman chastising the author for being ‘chalu’ (though honestly, I cannot figure out for the life of me how chalu fits in in this context), for having violated every norm of Indian culture by doing everything that a good bharatiya naari (that’s Indian woman) should never do – cuss, drink alcohol, raise her eyes when faced with an Indian man, show her cleavage and then dare to expect that the Indian man will not grope her… the list goes on.
I spent around an hour laughing at the chap and his rather archaic view of women. After I had finished laughing, I realized that this chap is probably not alone. Hell, as an Indian guy, I have encountered many of these standard bearers of (what they define as) Indian culture.
Though I have thankfully never been groped (though I am perfectly amenable to a pretty woman doing so if she so desires – caste no bar), or had roadside Romeos display their wares to me on the street, I have met enough Ashok Singhals and other apologists of roadside romeos and their ilk to write a post about. These are a few of the theories that I have found of great interest.
Theory # 1: The Slut Theory
The Slut Theory is one of the most interesting theories that I have heard one of our home-grown fundamentalists propose.
By this theory, “Any woman who has violated the 2500 year-old tenets of ‘Indian culture’ by wearing tight clothes (display of cleavage is not necessary, but can hasten classification into the depraved slut category), talking to more than one man, laughing when a man cracks a (often terrible) joke, or consuming alcohol was a slut, is a slut, and will forever remain a slut.’
Corollaries to this theory include: If a girl has been classified as a slut according to the above theory, then it is perfectly okay to call her a public toilet or a corporation playground – as all three of them are free.
It is perfectly alright to grope a girl who fulfils anyone of the aforementioned criteria. She likes it, y’see!
To be perfectly honest, when I was younger, I did partly believe in this theory. Though, honestly, not in the third corollary. In any case, I apologize to the whole of India for that.
Theory # 2: Pure and virginal Indian girl theory
The day is somewhere in the year 2005. The age of enlightenment and reason.
The place: Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom - one of the few countries in the world where freedom of speech still exists.
An Indian popsy drops in for dinner. During the course of the dinner, a fellow desi spills a bit of curry on my jeans. None too pleased, I utter a ‘b****c***’. Harsh, I know, but I do have conscientious objections to decorating my trousers with curry – particularly because I have similarly conscientious objections to washing them (the jeans, not the curry).
I was fully prepared to receive a ‘b****c****’ or a ‘M****c***’ from the chap I had just insulted, considering he is one of those blokes who wakes up in the morning with a cheery ‘b****c***’ playing on his lips, and is never found searching for the right abusive term to use.
But what he said shocked me.
‘Shut up, you idiot!’, he hissed into my ear.
Calling me a Ba*^!@#!@ would have been perfectly acceptable. In fact, I would probably have expected a m*^(*&(&*( or a co&**()&)(*() as well, and brushed it aside.
But idiot!? I would not have been surprised if he called me a ‘terrible person’ or ‘you evil blackguard’ next.
‘What the f*ck do you mean - idiot? You f*cking spilled a whole dollop of f*cking smelly curry on my f*cking jeans, and you f*cking expect me to f*cking shut the f*ck up? And yeah, please refrain from using such puerile insults as idiot – they jar on a man of refined sensibilities like myself.’ said I.
He merely glared, as did the others, leaving me to finish the meal completely perplexed. When I attempted to ask one of the chaps how he was getting along with his hangover, I was shot down equally unceremoniously.
After I had retired to my room to chew on a meditative stick of gum, the aforementioned chap stepped in.
‘Dude! That was an Indian girl you were talking to.’
‘No, I was not talking to her. In fact, you know that I’d rather climb Mount Everest naked than talk to her about anything, inclusive of the situation in Papua new Guinea.’, said I, rather wittily.
‘F*ck that, you m&*(*^(*^()&^*!’
This was interesting! For a person who had glared at one for far milder language (okay, not far milder, but still…) just a few minutes ago, he seemed to have made good progress.
He continued in a rich vein that turned the surrounding air blue with its refreshing candour, ‘There was an Indian girl present when you used the F word, not to mention b****c***! And then you spoke about alcohol!! She must have felt terrible.’
To say that I was surprised would be understating it. ‘But I did not use the F word on her, and neither did I call her a B****c***. I was not even looking at her. In fact, I was referring to your monumental ineptitude.’
‘Now you listen to me! I do not think you have ever lived in the real India. You have no respect for Indian culture. You do not understand that Indian women are not like the morally corrupt and loose European women that you see here. A ‘pure’ Indian girl like Priya is not brought up in the kind of filthy environment your female friends were probably brought up in. She does not even understand the kind of words you used.’
Ignoring my question as to how a word that she did not understand could hurt her, he then continued a long diatribe about how Priya was not the kind of modern (contempt-intended) jeans-clad girl who would laugh lightly at profanity, indulge in using profanity herself, refuse to cook and clean for her husband and *gasp* ask to be allowed to work after marriage.
He concluded with a plea to me to attempt to respect Indian culture (around other women – an Indian male is allowed to be as prurient as he wishes when the right kind of woman is not around), however I wished to behave with my future wife.
As is clear from the aforementioned prude’s stated ideals, a good Indian woman is pure as the driven snow, has never heard a swear word, and is most definitely a virgin. In fact, I would not be too surprised if he plans to physically assault his future wife if she actually knows that babies are not produced by kissing.
To him and other torch-bearers of Indian culture, all I have to say is that I do not care if a woman is pure, virginal or both. I will not use profanities against one who prefers not to hear them, but I reserve my right to freedom of speech in the privacy of my kitchen.
Besides, nobody – irrespective of sex – is so pure as to be completely shocked by people who think and act differently from them. If they are,
I was racking my brain, trying to think of some inanity that I could wax eloquent on. It was as I was putting my brain through exercise that it was unaccustomed to that I stumbled upon this post by another blogger. (Note: I don’t have her permission to derive inspiration from what she has written, but I hope she approves, and that the judge will not give me more than twenty years of penal servitude for copyright infringement.)
The post was all about a holier-than-thou moral policeman chastising the author for being ‘chalu’ (though honestly, I cannot figure out for the life of me how chalu fits in in this context), for having violated every norm of Indian culture by doing everything that a good bharatiya naari (that’s Indian woman) should never do – cuss, drink alcohol, raise her eyes when faced with an Indian man, show her cleavage and then dare to expect that the Indian man will not grope her… the list goes on.
I spent around an hour laughing at the chap and his rather archaic view of women. After I had finished laughing, I realized that this chap is probably not alone. Hell, as an Indian guy, I have encountered many of these standard bearers of (what they define as) Indian culture.
Though I have thankfully never been groped (though I am perfectly amenable to a pretty woman doing so if she so desires – caste no bar), or had roadside Romeos display their wares to me on the street, I have met enough Ashok Singhals and other apologists of roadside romeos and their ilk to write a post about. These are a few of the theories that I have found of great interest.
Theory # 1: The Slut Theory
The Slut Theory is one of the most interesting theories that I have heard one of our home-grown fundamentalists propose.
By this theory, “Any woman who has violated the 2500 year-old tenets of ‘Indian culture’ by wearing tight clothes (display of cleavage is not necessary, but can hasten classification into the depraved slut category), talking to more than one man, laughing when a man cracks a (often terrible) joke, or consuming alcohol was a slut, is a slut, and will forever remain a slut.’
Corollaries to this theory include: If a girl has been classified as a slut according to the above theory, then it is perfectly okay to call her a public toilet or a corporation playground – as all three of them are free.
It is perfectly alright to grope a girl who fulfils anyone of the aforementioned criteria. She likes it, y’see!
To be perfectly honest, when I was younger, I did partly believe in this theory. Though, honestly, not in the third corollary. In any case, I apologize to the whole of India for that.
Theory # 2: Pure and virginal Indian girl theory
The day is somewhere in the year 2005. The age of enlightenment and reason.
The place: Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom - one of the few countries in the world where freedom of speech still exists.
An Indian popsy drops in for dinner. During the course of the dinner, a fellow desi spills a bit of curry on my jeans. None too pleased, I utter a ‘b****c***’. Harsh, I know, but I do have conscientious objections to decorating my trousers with curry – particularly because I have similarly conscientious objections to washing them (the jeans, not the curry).
I was fully prepared to receive a ‘b****c****’ or a ‘M****c***’ from the chap I had just insulted, considering he is one of those blokes who wakes up in the morning with a cheery ‘b****c***’ playing on his lips, and is never found searching for the right abusive term to use.
But what he said shocked me.
‘Shut up, you idiot!’, he hissed into my ear.
Calling me a Ba*^!@#!@ would have been perfectly acceptable. In fact, I would probably have expected a m*^(*&(&*( or a co&**()&)(*() as well, and brushed it aside.
But idiot!? I would not have been surprised if he called me a ‘terrible person’ or ‘you evil blackguard’ next.
‘What the f*ck do you mean - idiot? You f*cking spilled a whole dollop of f*cking smelly curry on my f*cking jeans, and you f*cking expect me to f*cking shut the f*ck up? And yeah, please refrain from using such puerile insults as idiot – they jar on a man of refined sensibilities like myself.’ said I.
He merely glared, as did the others, leaving me to finish the meal completely perplexed. When I attempted to ask one of the chaps how he was getting along with his hangover, I was shot down equally unceremoniously.
After I had retired to my room to chew on a meditative stick of gum, the aforementioned chap stepped in.
‘Dude! That was an Indian girl you were talking to.’
‘No, I was not talking to her. In fact, you know that I’d rather climb Mount Everest naked than talk to her about anything, inclusive of the situation in Papua new Guinea.’, said I, rather wittily.
‘F*ck that, you m&*(*^(*^()&^*!’
This was interesting! For a person who had glared at one for far milder language (okay, not far milder, but still…) just a few minutes ago, he seemed to have made good progress.
He continued in a rich vein that turned the surrounding air blue with its refreshing candour, ‘There was an Indian girl present when you used the F word, not to mention b****c***! And then you spoke about alcohol!! She must have felt terrible.’
To say that I was surprised would be understating it. ‘But I did not use the F word on her, and neither did I call her a B****c***. I was not even looking at her. In fact, I was referring to your monumental ineptitude.’
‘Now you listen to me! I do not think you have ever lived in the real India. You have no respect for Indian culture. You do not understand that Indian women are not like the morally corrupt and loose European women that you see here. A ‘pure’ Indian girl like Priya is not brought up in the kind of filthy environment your female friends were probably brought up in. She does not even understand the kind of words you used.’
Ignoring my question as to how a word that she did not understand could hurt her, he then continued a long diatribe about how Priya was not the kind of modern (contempt-intended) jeans-clad girl who would laugh lightly at profanity, indulge in using profanity herself, refuse to cook and clean for her husband and *gasp* ask to be allowed to work after marriage.
He concluded with a plea to me to attempt to respect Indian culture (around other women – an Indian male is allowed to be as prurient as he wishes when the right kind of woman is not around), however I wished to behave with my future wife.
As is clear from the aforementioned prude’s stated ideals, a good Indian woman is pure as the driven snow, has never heard a swear word, and is most definitely a virgin. In fact, I would not be too surprised if he plans to physically assault his future wife if she actually knows that babies are not produced by kissing.
To him and other torch-bearers of Indian culture, all I have to say is that I do not care if a woman is pure, virginal or both. I will not use profanities against one who prefers not to hear them, but I reserve my right to freedom of speech in the privacy of my kitchen.
Besides, nobody – irrespective of sex – is so pure as to be completely shocked by people who think and act differently from them. If they are,
- They need to grow up.
- They need to realize they are perfectly capable of handling the situation themselves. They do not need self-proclaimed male guardians to protect their virtue.
- Alcohol is not forbidden/prohibited by Hinduism. If anybody thinks it is (and can prove it), they’re welcome to take the bottle of Russian-made vodka that I hide in my cupboard. I’ll buy another bottle, but you better start drinking unless you are capable of thinking for yourself and do not drink as a personal choice. What a wise man said five thousand years ago cannot dictate your life. He would be disappointed if you are incapable of arriving at a decision for yourself.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Falling off Goatfell - The Arran Trip, Part II
Falling off Goatfell
We landed in Arran in due time. A few lingering suspicions I had of whether I had actually docked in France by mistake were dismissed when I realized I could understand what the blokes on the shore were mouthing (unless of course the French had seen sense at long last and decided to switch to English).
Arran is a huge island, and does not have as many roads as a lazy city slicker like me would have liked. However, since it is huge, walking everywhere is not an option either. This leaves one with two options - of getting onto an overpriced bus, or selling your soul to raise the funds to rent a car.
Since I didn’t know if I had one of the latter, I decided to clamber onto a bus to travel to a place called Corrie. It was as I settled down on the bus that I realized that the buses were marginally less comfortable than the trusty 100 year old steeds they use in Chennai, and the roads were as good as the euphemistically named IT highway is after a storm.
I also realized that the bus driver suffered from the delusion that he was at the wheel of a Jaguar. He was convinced that the only way he could give his passengers their money’s worth was by giving their collective stomachs a good churn. He was aided and abetted by the twists and turns of the wonderfully surfaced road.
As we neared Corrie, any thoughts I had entertained of making terrible jokes about Poories in Corrie had all but vanished. All I wanted was a quiet corner where I could relieve myself of the contents of the stomach. The coffee was fighting with the ham and cheese sandwiches for an out, and all of them picked my esophagus as the staging point for breaking out of my body.
One of my friends tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Are you sick?’, she asked, rather unnecessarily.
‘No, I usually turn green on a whim. It amuses me to no end.’ Bitter words, no doubt. But there are times when a man is amenable to stupid questions, and times when he is not.
‘I just thought of a funny joke.’, she went on, unaffected by my remarks which were meant to bite like an adder and sting like a bee. ‘You’re a sick individual in the normal course of things. But now you’re a sick person who is incidentally feeling sick.’
I turned to her with an expression that had disgust, disdain and annoyance written on it. I was about to make another scathing remark which would have shut her up (for thirty seconds, at least), when the bus went up in the air after climbing up a steep incline a little too fast. Belying the driver’s expectations, the bus did not stay airborne but descended to terra firma with a resounding thud. And the lemonade that I had sipped the day before joined the party that the coffee and the sandwiches were organizing in my esophagus.
My friend looked at me with sudden concern. ‘You’re going to puke, aren’t you?’
I nodded weakly, in the hope of garnering some womanly sympathy.
‘Please turn away. Don’t puke on me.’, said she, brutally.
If I were an old man, I would have said, ‘They don’t make women the way they used to in 1950.’
But I wasn’t (and am not) an old man. So I turned away, thinking dark thoughts and hoping for the depredation of all womankind.
Cut to: Goatfell Mountain
It had been fifteen minutes since I had let the coffee, the sandwiches and the lemonade make their way back to the womb of the nature that created them. As the climb got harder and harder, my backpack seemed to get inexplicably heavier and heavier. In a few minutes, I was almost climbing on all fours.
I shouldn’t have carried those three cans of beer, goddammit!
In keeping with the spirit of the previous post, I summarize herein the lessons learnt during the climb to, descent from and fall on Goatfell.
We landed in Arran in due time. A few lingering suspicions I had of whether I had actually docked in France by mistake were dismissed when I realized I could understand what the blokes on the shore were mouthing (unless of course the French had seen sense at long last and decided to switch to English).
Arran is a huge island, and does not have as many roads as a lazy city slicker like me would have liked. However, since it is huge, walking everywhere is not an option either. This leaves one with two options - of getting onto an overpriced bus, or selling your soul to raise the funds to rent a car.
Since I didn’t know if I had one of the latter, I decided to clamber onto a bus to travel to a place called Corrie. It was as I settled down on the bus that I realized that the buses were marginally less comfortable than the trusty 100 year old steeds they use in Chennai, and the roads were as good as the euphemistically named IT highway is after a storm.
I also realized that the bus driver suffered from the delusion that he was at the wheel of a Jaguar. He was convinced that the only way he could give his passengers their money’s worth was by giving their collective stomachs a good churn. He was aided and abetted by the twists and turns of the wonderfully surfaced road.
As we neared Corrie, any thoughts I had entertained of making terrible jokes about Poories in Corrie had all but vanished. All I wanted was a quiet corner where I could relieve myself of the contents of the stomach. The coffee was fighting with the ham and cheese sandwiches for an out, and all of them picked my esophagus as the staging point for breaking out of my body.
One of my friends tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Are you sick?’, she asked, rather unnecessarily.
‘No, I usually turn green on a whim. It amuses me to no end.’ Bitter words, no doubt. But there are times when a man is amenable to stupid questions, and times when he is not.
‘I just thought of a funny joke.’, she went on, unaffected by my remarks which were meant to bite like an adder and sting like a bee. ‘You’re a sick individual in the normal course of things. But now you’re a sick person who is incidentally feeling sick.’
I turned to her with an expression that had disgust, disdain and annoyance written on it. I was about to make another scathing remark which would have shut her up (for thirty seconds, at least), when the bus went up in the air after climbing up a steep incline a little too fast. Belying the driver’s expectations, the bus did not stay airborne but descended to terra firma with a resounding thud. And the lemonade that I had sipped the day before joined the party that the coffee and the sandwiches were organizing in my esophagus.
My friend looked at me with sudden concern. ‘You’re going to puke, aren’t you?’
I nodded weakly, in the hope of garnering some womanly sympathy.
‘Please turn away. Don’t puke on me.’, said she, brutally.
If I were an old man, I would have said, ‘They don’t make women the way they used to in 1950.’
But I wasn’t (and am not) an old man. So I turned away, thinking dark thoughts and hoping for the depredation of all womankind.
Cut to: Goatfell Mountain
It had been fifteen minutes since I had let the coffee, the sandwiches and the lemonade make their way back to the womb of the nature that created them. As the climb got harder and harder, my backpack seemed to get inexplicably heavier and heavier. In a few minutes, I was almost climbing on all fours.
I shouldn’t have carried those three cans of beer, goddammit!
In keeping with the spirit of the previous post, I summarize herein the lessons learnt during the climb to, descent from and fall on Goatfell.
- If somebody asks you to carry three cans of beer, don’t listen to somebody. In fact, go a step further and tell somebody that he’s talking through his hat.
- If the somebody happens to be yourself, kill somebody. The world doesn’t deserve somebodies of this kind. *searches frantically for a noose or a few capsules of cyanide*
- Snow looks nice and feels nice to the touch. But that doesn’t make having snow stuffed down your shirt an enjoyable experience.
- Snow is slippery. But do not avoid the snow to walk on the adjoining wet, icy rocks. Ice is slipperier (a message to the purists here – if Lewis Carroll could say curiouser, why can’t I say slipperier. So there!) than snow, and falling down on a rock hurts more than falling down on snow.
- If you’re five feet and seven inches tall, weigh around 63 kilos, have black hair, Indian, and called Siddhu, don’t go mountain climbing. There are several other pursuits you will be significantly better at – like, for instance, being a roadside romeo and whistling at passing pulchritude, sleeping, or drawing Nazi Swastikas on bus stop windows.
Monday, February 20, 2006
A trip to Arran - Part I
The isle of Arran is supposed to be somewhere on the west coast of Scotland. I am not sure exactly where, so don’t ask me where it is if you aren’t either. That’s why God created Google Earth.
Irrespective of whether I am sure of its exact coordinate position or not, the fact remains that I did spend the weekend there. Two days during which I speculated if I was closer to France than I usually am, twisted my ankle six times, developed a convincing, almost arthritic crick in the knee, and slept in a pub, on a dining table, on two different buses, in a bus stop, and on the deck of a ferry.
By this time, the reader has probably left – being, as most normal people are, completely disinterested in the weekend activities of a somnambulist. But if you haven’t, (and in case you’re reading this, you haven’t) let me hasten to explain that Arran is an island which is supposed to be a miniature model of Scotland – the island contains, among others, thick forests, waterfalls, a 2000 foot mountain, crazy bus drivers who think they’re driving roller coasters, and rubbish bins exclusively for dog poop*. In fact, the only thing I couldn’t find were large numbers of friendly Scottish drunks looking for someone to talk to about how Englishmen are evil incarnate (something one expects to find as a matter of course in every Scottish city).
Part I – The Trip to Arran
The day that I got onto the bus to begin my trip to this little isle dawned fresh and beautiful. It didn’t appear all that fresh and beautiful to me because sleeping just two hours results in one having a rather jaundiced view of things.
After drawing a small Nazi swastika on the condensate on the bus stop window (and hoping to alarm some pacifist or idiot into thinking that it was time to wear yellow stars around their arms again), I got onto the bus and staggered to the most comfortable seat I could find.
It was then that I found that I had forgotten to zip my fly up. Finding oneself with an unzipped fly when almost completely surrounded by women is probably the kind of thing some people actually enjoy – strippers, streakers, and miscellaneous other perverts.
But, being none of them, and on the contrary, being a nice Indian boy, I found myself in a highly uncomfortable situation. After having settled into the most fetal position I could possible contort myself to settle into, I slept fitfully – dreaming all the time of most unpleasant occurrences. All of which involved me accidentally stretching my legs.
Two hours later, I found myself being woken up by a few rather impolite jabs, and being pushed into a ferry.
And talking of coffee served at the lounge where one waits for a ferry (not that we were, but let’s assume we were), I had an argument of great pith and moment with someone over why it is alright to leave a coffee cup on a chair if one cannot find a dustbin anywhere in sight. As I walked away after having lost the argument, I decided that this unnecessary attention to detail is probably why Asia looks all set to supplant Europe in the world stage. You wouldn’t find an Indian or a Chinese bloke spending hours looking for dustbins when the whole world is at his disposal (pun intended).
As I watched the ferry move slowly towards Arran, I began to wonder if that landmass that I sighted yonder was France. I turned to a friend of mine, who happened to be contemplating similarly deep thoughts, and spoke
‘Hey, is that France that I see out there?’
She laughed. I am often used to girls giggling at my witticisms, but this didn’t sound right. Girls, when they giggle, do not often sound sarcastic. And neither do they look like she did just then.
‘We’re sailing to the west of Scotland. How on earth do you expect to find France here?’
I was perplexed for a bit. West, according to me, was a perfectly natural place for France to be, unless it had moved since I heard from it last. After all, I’d been led to believe all along by my geography teacher that France was a western country.
But before I could say that, realization dawned upon me. Us Warriers are not perplexed for long. I turned towards her and said, rather snappily, ‘Ah! We’re on the Pacific then!’
A long silence, punctuated by hyenasque gasps, followed, as she held onto the railings trying not to fall over. Dashed inconsiderate of her, I must say.
‘No, you idiot! This is the Atlantic! And what you think you see is Northern Ireland.’
I was not convinced and decided to consult a local, as Scotsmen are unlikely to double over with laughter when one asks them a question of great pith and moment. I found a local yokel leaning over the railing, smoking a meditative cigarette.
‘Er, excuse me, mate, but are we on the Atlantic Ocean?’
‘ARRh…nayy, we aRe on the fiRth of <some word that has slipped my mind for the nonce>. If we tRavel another hundRed miles, we would be on the Atlantic, aye! And that theRe is the isle of ARRan. ’, said he, enunciating each ‘r’ loud enough to wake the dead.
Ah! I knew we weren’t sailing to Ireland. It had to be the isle of Arran.
I turned to my friend in triumph. ‘See? See? It’s not the Atlantic! We’re at the confluence of the Pacific and the Atlantic. And the firth of whatever it is called is just Gaelic for the Pacific. Almost everything is called a firth of something or the other around these parts’
(Cut to: Fifteen minutes later)
A long geography lesson punctuated with condescending and funny remarks which weren’t remotely funny (though the other hyenas seemed to think otherwise) culminates.
Lessons learnt:
Will our intrepid hero be thrown to the sharks for his ineptness in Geography? Will he fall off the Goatfell mountain, and add to the multitude of goats that have already fallen off it? Will he continue to write such arrant nonsense? All this, and lots more, in the next episode of this breathtakingly boring travelogue.
*Vilasrao Deshmukh must have, at one time, been mayor of Arran.
Irrespective of whether I am sure of its exact coordinate position or not, the fact remains that I did spend the weekend there. Two days during which I speculated if I was closer to France than I usually am, twisted my ankle six times, developed a convincing, almost arthritic crick in the knee, and slept in a pub, on a dining table, on two different buses, in a bus stop, and on the deck of a ferry.
By this time, the reader has probably left – being, as most normal people are, completely disinterested in the weekend activities of a somnambulist. But if you haven’t, (and in case you’re reading this, you haven’t) let me hasten to explain that Arran is an island which is supposed to be a miniature model of Scotland – the island contains, among others, thick forests, waterfalls, a 2000 foot mountain, crazy bus drivers who think they’re driving roller coasters, and rubbish bins exclusively for dog poop*. In fact, the only thing I couldn’t find were large numbers of friendly Scottish drunks looking for someone to talk to about how Englishmen are evil incarnate (something one expects to find as a matter of course in every Scottish city).
Part I – The Trip to Arran
The day that I got onto the bus to begin my trip to this little isle dawned fresh and beautiful. It didn’t appear all that fresh and beautiful to me because sleeping just two hours results in one having a rather jaundiced view of things.
After drawing a small Nazi swastika on the condensate on the bus stop window (and hoping to alarm some pacifist or idiot into thinking that it was time to wear yellow stars around their arms again), I got onto the bus and staggered to the most comfortable seat I could find.
It was then that I found that I had forgotten to zip my fly up. Finding oneself with an unzipped fly when almost completely surrounded by women is probably the kind of thing some people actually enjoy – strippers, streakers, and miscellaneous other perverts.
But, being none of them, and on the contrary, being a nice Indian boy, I found myself in a highly uncomfortable situation. After having settled into the most fetal position I could possible contort myself to settle into, I slept fitfully – dreaming all the time of most unpleasant occurrences. All of which involved me accidentally stretching my legs.
Two hours later, I found myself being woken up by a few rather impolite jabs, and being pushed into a ferry.
And talking of coffee served at the lounge where one waits for a ferry (not that we were, but let’s assume we were), I had an argument of great pith and moment with someone over why it is alright to leave a coffee cup on a chair if one cannot find a dustbin anywhere in sight. As I walked away after having lost the argument, I decided that this unnecessary attention to detail is probably why Asia looks all set to supplant Europe in the world stage. You wouldn’t find an Indian or a Chinese bloke spending hours looking for dustbins when the whole world is at his disposal (pun intended).
As I watched the ferry move slowly towards Arran, I began to wonder if that landmass that I sighted yonder was France. I turned to a friend of mine, who happened to be contemplating similarly deep thoughts, and spoke
‘Hey, is that France that I see out there?’
She laughed. I am often used to girls giggling at my witticisms, but this didn’t sound right. Girls, when they giggle, do not often sound sarcastic. And neither do they look like she did just then.
‘We’re sailing to the west of Scotland. How on earth do you expect to find France here?’
I was perplexed for a bit. West, according to me, was a perfectly natural place for France to be, unless it had moved since I heard from it last. After all, I’d been led to believe all along by my geography teacher that France was a western country.
But before I could say that, realization dawned upon me. Us Warriers are not perplexed for long. I turned towards her and said, rather snappily, ‘Ah! We’re on the Pacific then!’
A long silence, punctuated by hyenasque gasps, followed, as she held onto the railings trying not to fall over. Dashed inconsiderate of her, I must say.
‘No, you idiot! This is the Atlantic! And what you think you see is Northern Ireland.’
I was not convinced and decided to consult a local, as Scotsmen are unlikely to double over with laughter when one asks them a question of great pith and moment. I found a local yokel leaning over the railing, smoking a meditative cigarette.
‘Er, excuse me, mate, but are we on the Atlantic Ocean?’
‘ARRh…nayy, we aRe on the fiRth of <some word that has slipped my mind for the nonce>. If we tRavel another hundRed miles, we would be on the Atlantic, aye! And that theRe is the isle of ARRan. ’, said he, enunciating each ‘r’ loud enough to wake the dead.
Ah! I knew we weren’t sailing to Ireland. It had to be the isle of Arran.
I turned to my friend in triumph. ‘See? See? It’s not the Atlantic! We’re at the confluence of the Pacific and the Atlantic. And the firth of whatever it is called is just Gaelic for the Pacific. Almost everything is called a firth of something or the other around these parts’
(Cut to: Fifteen minutes later)
A long geography lesson punctuated with condescending and funny remarks which weren’t remotely funny (though the other hyenas seemed to think otherwise) culminates.
Lessons learnt:
- Do not argue with a woman. You’ll lose.
- If the captain says you’re sailing to the Isle of Arran, believe him.
- The Atlantic is closer to the firth of whatever it is than the Pacific.
- The firth of whatever it is is not the Gaelic word for the Pacific.
- I should never have passed my geography examination in school. Somebody made a big mistake.
Will our intrepid hero be thrown to the sharks for his ineptness in Geography? Will he fall off the Goatfell mountain, and add to the multitude of goats that have already fallen off it? Will he continue to write such arrant nonsense? All this, and lots more, in the next episode of this breathtakingly boring travelogue.
*Vilasrao Deshmukh must have, at one time, been mayor of Arran.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Of Douches, casanovae and all that
I am no Don Juan. Casanova would probably squirm in his grave if someone compared me to him. My charm, erudition, politeness and keenness may be bywords in the circles that I frequent - but remarks on my way with women often provokes a hiss or a peal of unrestrained laughter from the worms who happen to be my comrades-in-arms.
I can well imagine this conversation between an egg, a bean and crumpet who know me.
The egg says, as the three of them nestle close to the electric heater, ‘Ah, Siddhu! That’s a gentleman. Doesn’t miss a thing!’
The bean nods sagely in concurrence as he quaffed his fifth whisky down in a hurry, ‘Oh yeah! Ol’ eagle-eye Warrier about sums it up. Even if he does make pathetic attempts to imitate that chap called Wodehouse that slips my mind.’
The crumpet then speaks, ‘That’s all very fine. But what about his luck with women – or should I say, his way with women!?’
(Egg, bean and crumpet roll on the floor laughing, until the crumpet burns himself on the heater coil. Serves him right, the bastard!)
But the egg, bean and crumpet – even if they are struck down by lightning or eaten by bears for their blasphemy – weren’t too far away from putting their finger on the nub of the whole thingummy, as I illustrated yet again a couple of days ago.
I was all a-twitter. I was off to watch a terrible movie that is better left unnamed simply because a little chickadee, so to speak, was supposed to be watching it as well. After gelling my hair, adjusting my glasses for the umpteenth time (wait a second, I don’t wear glasses – so let’s skip that bit), and spraying enough deodorant to create a sizeable hole in the ozone layer, I walked away toward the bus stand.
Having become unaccustomed to getting anywhere on time during the course of 21 misspent years, I reached the bus stand to take in the wafting stench of diesel as the bus sped away – without me.
After a long, arduous journey which involved walking half a kilometer to find a cab, I managed to reach where I was supposed to meet the aforementioned popsy – to find that there was no popsy waiting.
It was a perplexing puzzle. I deduced that if there was no popsy where there was, technically, supposed to be a popsy, something was wrong. With my immense powers of ratiocination, I divined that any of the following could have happened –
The popsy had not arrived yet.
The popsy was sick of waiting for me.
She had been abducted by aliens who were in cahoots with the Iraqi insurgency.
After having dismissed the third as impossible, primarily because there are no Iraqis left outside Guantanamo bay and Abu Gharib, I began to consider the first two possibilities in all seriousness.
A swift glance at my watch told me that I was fifteen minutes late. After listening to a few well-chosen words from my friend whom I had dragged along for the ordeal, I got onto another taxi to go to the theater directly. The cost incurred by self appeared to be assuming terribly monstrous proportions – the monstrosity of which grew with every ‘tick’ of the taximeter. I finally arrived at the theater – five pounds in the red already – and met the damsel I have spoken in such glowing terms over the past two pages.
I don’t know what it is about female temperament that makes a fifteen minute wait intolerable. And the damsel was displayed every sign of the female temperament that has befuddled philosophers over the ages.
Trying to make amends, I offered hastily to buy the tickets, and rushed ahead towards the counter butting a woman in the stomach on the way.
‘Er… two tickets, please’, said I, in my most suave, debonair and charming manner.
My friend who had reason to remonstrate with me previously tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to get another two for him and his friend.
‘Er…another two tickets, but he’s paying for them.’, I muttered to the rather retarded chap selling the tickets.
The retarded chap, stung to the quick, told me to conduct my business dealings first and then rejoin at the end of the queue. Which I did. As I walked back to the end of the queue, I noticed the damsel muttering something to her friend - harsh words which were indubitably not coated in milk and honey.
Ticket counter again. No mishaps, this time. Until the retard asked me for the money. I paid him what my friend had just handed me, and then took my wallet out with a flourish.
It was empty.
‘Er…’
‘Don’t you have the cash, mate?’, asked the ticket seller, now looking more like a gorilla than a retard.
‘Er…I think I accidentally forgot to visit the cash machine. Can I pay by card?’, said I, very sheepishly.
‘Sure, mate.’, said he, smiling once again – if one could call that vacuous expression he had on a smile.
After handing the card over to him, I leant on the partition with the confidence of a man who knows he’s ahead of the game. It was as I was musing on nothing in particular that the chap rose up again, looking like the Angrezon ki zamane ka jailer (which was probably what his grandfather was).
‘Your credit card has exceeded its credit limit.’, said he, coldly, and pushed the card back to me.
The damsel came hurrying, wondering what all the commotion was about.
‘What’s wrong, Siddhu?’
‘Er…a trifling logistical issue. I seem to be experiencing a slight, temporary liquidity crunch!’
‘You mean, you don’t have enough money.’
The idiot behind the counter piped up, ‘That means he has no money, Ma’am. Can you please pay for him?’
With a stare that Roget would call baleful, malevolent and sinister she paid for her tickets – and mine.
After everything, we walked into the theater where, thanks to what the damsel called ‘my dilatory tactics’, there were two pairs of two seats separated by an abyss wider than the grand canyon.
‘So what do you want to do now?’, asked she, tapping her foot in irritation.
Then, her friend resolved the situation by saying, ‘I can’t sit up front. I’ll sprain my neck, and then I’ll have spondylitis, and then I’ll have to wear a collar, and then I’ll be in a wheelchair all my life. (er…she didn’t say the last bit)’
It was then that I was struck with the biggest brainstorm to hit a human being since when in 2003 Dubya decided to ‘liberate’ Iraq in two weeks.
I said, ‘Okay, myself and my (male) friend will sit up front. You can sit up here with your friend.’
The friend who expected spondylitis giggled rather loudly as I walked downstairs.
As I walked down, I heard my friend whisper in my ear, ‘Douche!!!’
And then it struck me! Goddammit! Douche was right!!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Douche, I may be, but such a big douche I definitely am not.
Note: People can be as big douches as this. Trust me!
I can well imagine this conversation between an egg, a bean and crumpet who know me.
The egg says, as the three of them nestle close to the electric heater, ‘Ah, Siddhu! That’s a gentleman. Doesn’t miss a thing!’
The bean nods sagely in concurrence as he quaffed his fifth whisky down in a hurry, ‘Oh yeah! Ol’ eagle-eye Warrier about sums it up. Even if he does make pathetic attempts to imitate that chap called Wodehouse that slips my mind.’
The crumpet then speaks, ‘That’s all very fine. But what about his luck with women – or should I say, his way with women!?’
(Egg, bean and crumpet roll on the floor laughing, until the crumpet burns himself on the heater coil. Serves him right, the bastard!)
But the egg, bean and crumpet – even if they are struck down by lightning or eaten by bears for their blasphemy – weren’t too far away from putting their finger on the nub of the whole thingummy, as I illustrated yet again a couple of days ago.
I was all a-twitter. I was off to watch a terrible movie that is better left unnamed simply because a little chickadee, so to speak, was supposed to be watching it as well. After gelling my hair, adjusting my glasses for the umpteenth time (wait a second, I don’t wear glasses – so let’s skip that bit), and spraying enough deodorant to create a sizeable hole in the ozone layer, I walked away toward the bus stand.
Having become unaccustomed to getting anywhere on time during the course of 21 misspent years, I reached the bus stand to take in the wafting stench of diesel as the bus sped away – without me.
After a long, arduous journey which involved walking half a kilometer to find a cab, I managed to reach where I was supposed to meet the aforementioned popsy – to find that there was no popsy waiting.
It was a perplexing puzzle. I deduced that if there was no popsy where there was, technically, supposed to be a popsy, something was wrong. With my immense powers of ratiocination, I divined that any of the following could have happened –
The popsy had not arrived yet.
The popsy was sick of waiting for me.
She had been abducted by aliens who were in cahoots with the Iraqi insurgency.
After having dismissed the third as impossible, primarily because there are no Iraqis left outside Guantanamo bay and Abu Gharib, I began to consider the first two possibilities in all seriousness.
A swift glance at my watch told me that I was fifteen minutes late. After listening to a few well-chosen words from my friend whom I had dragged along for the ordeal, I got onto another taxi to go to the theater directly. The cost incurred by self appeared to be assuming terribly monstrous proportions – the monstrosity of which grew with every ‘tick’ of the taximeter. I finally arrived at the theater – five pounds in the red already – and met the damsel I have spoken in such glowing terms over the past two pages.
I don’t know what it is about female temperament that makes a fifteen minute wait intolerable. And the damsel was displayed every sign of the female temperament that has befuddled philosophers over the ages.
Trying to make amends, I offered hastily to buy the tickets, and rushed ahead towards the counter butting a woman in the stomach on the way.
‘Er… two tickets, please’, said I, in my most suave, debonair and charming manner.
My friend who had reason to remonstrate with me previously tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to get another two for him and his friend.
‘Er…another two tickets, but he’s paying for them.’, I muttered to the rather retarded chap selling the tickets.
The retarded chap, stung to the quick, told me to conduct my business dealings first and then rejoin at the end of the queue. Which I did. As I walked back to the end of the queue, I noticed the damsel muttering something to her friend - harsh words which were indubitably not coated in milk and honey.
Ticket counter again. No mishaps, this time. Until the retard asked me for the money. I paid him what my friend had just handed me, and then took my wallet out with a flourish.
It was empty.
‘Er…’
‘Don’t you have the cash, mate?’, asked the ticket seller, now looking more like a gorilla than a retard.
‘Er…I think I accidentally forgot to visit the cash machine. Can I pay by card?’, said I, very sheepishly.
‘Sure, mate.’, said he, smiling once again – if one could call that vacuous expression he had on a smile.
After handing the card over to him, I leant on the partition with the confidence of a man who knows he’s ahead of the game. It was as I was musing on nothing in particular that the chap rose up again, looking like the Angrezon ki zamane ka jailer (which was probably what his grandfather was).
‘Your credit card has exceeded its credit limit.’, said he, coldly, and pushed the card back to me.
The damsel came hurrying, wondering what all the commotion was about.
‘What’s wrong, Siddhu?’
‘Er…a trifling logistical issue. I seem to be experiencing a slight, temporary liquidity crunch!’
‘You mean, you don’t have enough money.’
The idiot behind the counter piped up, ‘That means he has no money, Ma’am. Can you please pay for him?’
With a stare that Roget would call baleful, malevolent and sinister she paid for her tickets – and mine.
After everything, we walked into the theater where, thanks to what the damsel called ‘my dilatory tactics’, there were two pairs of two seats separated by an abyss wider than the grand canyon.
‘So what do you want to do now?’, asked she, tapping her foot in irritation.
Then, her friend resolved the situation by saying, ‘I can’t sit up front. I’ll sprain my neck, and then I’ll have spondylitis, and then I’ll have to wear a collar, and then I’ll be in a wheelchair all my life. (er…she didn’t say the last bit)’
It was then that I was struck with the biggest brainstorm to hit a human being since when in 2003 Dubya decided to ‘liberate’ Iraq in two weeks.
I said, ‘Okay, myself and my (male) friend will sit up front. You can sit up here with your friend.’
The friend who expected spondylitis giggled rather loudly as I walked downstairs.
As I walked down, I heard my friend whisper in my ear, ‘Douche!!!’
And then it struck me! Goddammit! Douche was right!!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Douche, I may be, but such a big douche I definitely am not.
Note: People can be as big douches as this. Trust me!
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Resurrection!
The worst thing about trying to get yourself three degrees is that it does away with a lot of your time – time which could be spent pursuing the better things in life – like sleep, women, alcohol and a literary career. Particularly the first, as I never had what one would term stunning successes with the opposite sex, and a literary career may come quicker to a dyslexic than to me (as the award of the Booker Prize to my old friend whom I don’t like illustrates).
The grapevine brought to me, as grapevines are oft wont to do, news of a tag. Having battled a book tag with reasonable success and having come out tops, it was a grim prospect for the Warrier soul to be confronted with. A sea-serpent had tagged me a few weeks ago, asking me to torment the world with twenty random things about myself.
I faced two problems – the first being that I had written so many technical reports and research reviews of late that I knew the first words I wrote would be along the lines of -
It has been stated by several scholarly sources [1,2] that the life of Siddhu Warrier is not one that would spark great interest in most living creatures. The reasons for his insanity are chronicled by Boneh, Durfee and Frankel in their seminal work in 1998 [3] in great detail However, to go into this is beyond the scope of this report, and this report will therefore not delve any depper into this topic.
This report is organized as follows. The first section describes…
I can hear the multitudes (all 8 of them) scream out for mercy. The word goes around, this is not what we want of our young Warrier. (What we want is his complete extermination, which is unfortunately beyond the sphere of practical politics – unless one is an armed member of the London Metropolitan Police with a healthy disdain for brown skin)
And therefore, I waited, biding my time until the pressures of Java, CORBA, Xenoservers, Combinatorial Auction Algorithms and other unsightly creatures I would not share my bed with eased a bit.
And then, I put fingers to my ugly new Chinese keyboard and began to type. And realization dawned upon me that I can still be as boring as ever. So without further ado, leave me descend upon the aforementioned tag. Twenty wholesome facts about me (in no particular order) -
1. I admire Eminem, and have often been reprimanded strongly by some prudes whom I associate with for my excessive usage of the F word (and the B, and the S and the U and the Z words). But I persist, for I wager I am one of a dying breed of biggas.
2. I can’t stand women who attempt to paint a picture of themselves as nuns who would die of coronary haemorrhage if they were to hear unparliamentary language or an off-colour joke – the propensity to do this is unfortunately high among women of my country.
3. I once attempted to burn my house down. Before people start boarding their doors to protect themselves against a raging pyromaniac with a torch in hand, let me hasten to explain – how on earth was I supposed to know that the wrapping of a pack of butter contained aluminium? Even more importantly, it cannot be expected of a man of my commitments to think of things like switching off the power to the microwave.
But, may it never be said that I played the fiddle while 65/5 West Mains Road burnt itself down. Displaying the utmost sagacity (and a burning desire to avoid paying for the house, the microwave and the people residing therein – not to mention the desire to save what remained of the burning butter), I ran from room to room at six in the morning, attempting to wake its sleeping denizens with my ringing cries for everyone to join in on the bonfire in the kitchen.
And be it never be said that I did not thank the kindly person who switched the microwave off. I was exceedingly kind to him (and did not play Rammstein at twelve in the night for three days), even if he unfairly labelled me a ‘certified chootiya’.
4. Unlike an idiot friend of mine named Jormund Elver, I would never turn down a girl who wished to make out with me. It’s a simple matter of asking, girls! I’m waiting…
5. The world is full of short-sighted women who do not understand the enormity of the opportunity that they have missed out on all these years.
6. A lifetime of reading Archie comics has turned me as clumsy as Archie. Like the Boy Scout who basks in the joy of having done a good deed everyday, I spend most days under the shadow of my latest act of clumsiness – the act, as of even date, being spilling a whole glass of Pepsi on a girl’s jeans (and trying to blame someone else for having scratched their left nostril).
7. The most famous line that I ever mouthed was – ‘Ma’am, Siddhu was a good boy, Ma’am. Peyi eriduthu. (A ghost took possession of him)’. I still await an Oscar for that brilliant and melodramatic performace , executed off-the-cuff immediately after having been caught drawing my vice-principal dancing the Charleston in his underpants.
8. I am no Fred Astaire. My dancing style has oft been compared to a pig’s, Gandhi’s and the obese driver of an Onyx dumpster – to the latters’ advantage.
This entertaining and insightful glance into the depraved and debauched life of Siddhu Warrier will be continued, as soon as the author returns after a bacchanalian night of revelry in the company of SQL, PHP and XML.
The grapevine brought to me, as grapevines are oft wont to do, news of a tag. Having battled a book tag with reasonable success and having come out tops, it was a grim prospect for the Warrier soul to be confronted with. A sea-serpent had tagged me a few weeks ago, asking me to torment the world with twenty random things about myself.
I faced two problems – the first being that I had written so many technical reports and research reviews of late that I knew the first words I wrote would be along the lines of -
It has been stated by several scholarly sources [1,2] that the life of Siddhu Warrier is not one that would spark great interest in most living creatures. The reasons for his insanity are chronicled by Boneh, Durfee and Frankel in their seminal work in 1998 [3] in great detail However, to go into this is beyond the scope of this report, and this report will therefore not delve any depper into this topic.
This report is organized as follows. The first section describes…
I can hear the multitudes (all 8 of them) scream out for mercy. The word goes around, this is not what we want of our young Warrier. (What we want is his complete extermination, which is unfortunately beyond the sphere of practical politics – unless one is an armed member of the London Metropolitan Police with a healthy disdain for brown skin)
And therefore, I waited, biding my time until the pressures of Java, CORBA, Xenoservers, Combinatorial Auction Algorithms and other unsightly creatures I would not share my bed with eased a bit.
And then, I put fingers to my ugly new Chinese keyboard and began to type. And realization dawned upon me that I can still be as boring as ever. So without further ado, leave me descend upon the aforementioned tag. Twenty wholesome facts about me (in no particular order) -
1. I admire Eminem, and have often been reprimanded strongly by some prudes whom I associate with for my excessive usage of the F word (and the B, and the S and the U and the Z words). But I persist, for I wager I am one of a dying breed of biggas.
2. I can’t stand women who attempt to paint a picture of themselves as nuns who would die of coronary haemorrhage if they were to hear unparliamentary language or an off-colour joke – the propensity to do this is unfortunately high among women of my country.
3. I once attempted to burn my house down. Before people start boarding their doors to protect themselves against a raging pyromaniac with a torch in hand, let me hasten to explain – how on earth was I supposed to know that the wrapping of a pack of butter contained aluminium? Even more importantly, it cannot be expected of a man of my commitments to think of things like switching off the power to the microwave.
But, may it never be said that I played the fiddle while 65/5 West Mains Road burnt itself down. Displaying the utmost sagacity (and a burning desire to avoid paying for the house, the microwave and the people residing therein – not to mention the desire to save what remained of the burning butter), I ran from room to room at six in the morning, attempting to wake its sleeping denizens with my ringing cries for everyone to join in on the bonfire in the kitchen.
And be it never be said that I did not thank the kindly person who switched the microwave off. I was exceedingly kind to him (and did not play Rammstein at twelve in the night for three days), even if he unfairly labelled me a ‘certified chootiya’.
4. Unlike an idiot friend of mine named Jormund Elver, I would never turn down a girl who wished to make out with me. It’s a simple matter of asking, girls! I’m waiting…
5. The world is full of short-sighted women who do not understand the enormity of the opportunity that they have missed out on all these years.
6. A lifetime of reading Archie comics has turned me as clumsy as Archie. Like the Boy Scout who basks in the joy of having done a good deed everyday, I spend most days under the shadow of my latest act of clumsiness – the act, as of even date, being spilling a whole glass of Pepsi on a girl’s jeans (and trying to blame someone else for having scratched their left nostril).
7. The most famous line that I ever mouthed was – ‘Ma’am, Siddhu was a good boy, Ma’am. Peyi eriduthu. (A ghost took possession of him)’. I still await an Oscar for that brilliant and melodramatic performace , executed off-the-cuff immediately after having been caught drawing my vice-principal dancing the Charleston in his underpants.
8. I am no Fred Astaire. My dancing style has oft been compared to a pig’s, Gandhi’s and the obese driver of an Onyx dumpster – to the latters’ advantage.
This entertaining and insightful glance into the depraved and debauched life of Siddhu Warrier will be continued, as soon as the author returns after a bacchanalian night of revelry in the company of SQL, PHP and XML.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
A tale of two countries...
As this author pens this piece, he realizes that he has been terribly inactive on the blogging front for the last couple of weeks. But I must hasten to explain that it is because I have had to be terribly active in the real world – something I’m not particularly keen about, but something I have to do to justify the faith that the European Union has (mis)placed in me.
To get down to actually writing (and trying to figure out if I still remember to write in languages other than Java), here goes…
The Glaswegian, myself and (part of) an unfortunate Englishman
Around three weeks ago, a young Warrier packed his little all and scooted to a not-so-little place called Glasgow.
Glasgow was, to sum it up, rather a disappointment. But then, living in a place like Edinburgh prejudices you against most places (unless of course you’re visiting El Dorado or Shangri La).
But that doesn’t take away from it the fact that Glaswegians are terribly interesting people. If one were to be a little more unkind, one would use the word ‘weird’ – but being the nice, well-bred and sweet young man that I am, I will not say so.
Standing by a bridge in Glasgow at two in the afternoon, I asked my Nigerian friend to snap a picture of me and an English friend of mine. As I primped myself to look even more dashing than I usually do, I did not notice a slightly inebriated-looking middle aged man walk towards us.
But the inebriated-looking middle aged man did notice us. Before I could say a word (or two, for that matter), he put his arm around me, pushed Ian (the English chap) out of the frame and plastered a very drunk grin on his face. It was a laughing self that posed for the camera with the old soak. The normally reticent Ian was too shocked to say much, but merely looked a little more perplexed than he usually looks.
After my clearly amused friend had snapped a picture of us, we assumed the old soak would go along to whichever pub he haunted at this early hour. But the friendly neighbourhood Glaswegian had different ideas. Energetically shaking me by the hand, he asked me,
‘Where ya from, mate?’
‘Er…India…’, said I, for I had still not overcome my initial surprise.
‘Welcome to Glasgow, mate! We’re SO glad to have you here… Have a great time in Glasgow!’
He asked Deji, the Nigerian bloke, the same question, and welcomed him equally effusively - the ridiculous grin still in place.
And then, he turned to Ian, who looked like he would have much rather preferred to have been in a cave in Afghanistan hunting for bin Laden, butter knife in hand.
Ian is as English as the English get, if not even more. The ‘Englishness’ of his English accent would probably put the Queen to shame – what with his erudition oozing out of every syllable. He is, to cut a long story short, the kind of chap who’d never have caused Queen Victoria to raise a cultured eyebrow and snort a nasty ‘We are not amused!’ (though Queen Victoria would have been equally likely to bellow an uncultured ‘Off with his f***ing head’ if faced with our Glaswegian hero.)
‘Oh, rather, I’m from England, what what?’
It was the work of a moment for our hero to wipe the grin off his face. He glared balefully at Ian and said,
‘You’re a ruddy Englishman! Go away, f*** off!!’
If Ian had looked perplexed til then, he now seemed a trifle shocked – as shocked as he ever gets.
‘I say! What?’, was all he could come up with.
The Glaswegian continued, ignoring Ian’s protests that he could not possibly f*** out of Scotland at such short notice.
‘You!’, he said – the grin back on - pointing a stubby finger at me, ‘and you’, this time looking cheerfully at the Nigerian, ‘are invited to the pub – free drinks on me. You’re visitors to Scotland!’
Ian had by now lapsed into silence, and was probably wondering when the Glaswegian would pull a carving knife out to expedite the process of his f***ing out of Scotland.
The Glaswegian turned to him and said, ‘NO Drinks for You, mate.’
And then, with a parting wave to us, and a muttered ‘go back to England’ to Ian, our cheery Glaswegian took leave of us.
And he never did tell us what the name of ‘his’ pub was…
I’m leaving on a short tour of London during my mid-semester break next week. It promises to be a fun trip – what with six of us haunting the old metropolis for three whole days. But unfortunately, before I can leave, there are pressing issues such as an assignment that I have to deal with. So the next week will presumably be spent in writing in a little-known but much-hated foreign language called Java. So, until then, adios amigos…or as the Scots are wont to say, Cheers Mate!!
To get down to actually writing (and trying to figure out if I still remember to write in languages other than Java), here goes…
The Glaswegian, myself and (part of) an unfortunate Englishman
Around three weeks ago, a young Warrier packed his little all and scooted to a not-so-little place called Glasgow.
Glasgow was, to sum it up, rather a disappointment. But then, living in a place like Edinburgh prejudices you against most places (unless of course you’re visiting El Dorado or Shangri La).
But that doesn’t take away from it the fact that Glaswegians are terribly interesting people. If one were to be a little more unkind, one would use the word ‘weird’ – but being the nice, well-bred and sweet young man that I am, I will not say so.
Standing by a bridge in Glasgow at two in the afternoon, I asked my Nigerian friend to snap a picture of me and an English friend of mine. As I primped myself to look even more dashing than I usually do, I did not notice a slightly inebriated-looking middle aged man walk towards us.
But the inebriated-looking middle aged man did notice us. Before I could say a word (or two, for that matter), he put his arm around me, pushed Ian (the English chap) out of the frame and plastered a very drunk grin on his face. It was a laughing self that posed for the camera with the old soak. The normally reticent Ian was too shocked to say much, but merely looked a little more perplexed than he usually looks.
After my clearly amused friend had snapped a picture of us, we assumed the old soak would go along to whichever pub he haunted at this early hour. But the friendly neighbourhood Glaswegian had different ideas. Energetically shaking me by the hand, he asked me,
‘Where ya from, mate?’
‘Er…India…’, said I, for I had still not overcome my initial surprise.
‘Welcome to Glasgow, mate! We’re SO glad to have you here… Have a great time in Glasgow!’
He asked Deji, the Nigerian bloke, the same question, and welcomed him equally effusively - the ridiculous grin still in place.
And then, he turned to Ian, who looked like he would have much rather preferred to have been in a cave in Afghanistan hunting for bin Laden, butter knife in hand.
Ian is as English as the English get, if not even more. The ‘Englishness’ of his English accent would probably put the Queen to shame – what with his erudition oozing out of every syllable. He is, to cut a long story short, the kind of chap who’d never have caused Queen Victoria to raise a cultured eyebrow and snort a nasty ‘We are not amused!’ (though Queen Victoria would have been equally likely to bellow an uncultured ‘Off with his f***ing head’ if faced with our Glaswegian hero.)
‘Oh, rather, I’m from England, what what?’
It was the work of a moment for our hero to wipe the grin off his face. He glared balefully at Ian and said,
‘You’re a ruddy Englishman! Go away, f*** off!!’
If Ian had looked perplexed til then, he now seemed a trifle shocked – as shocked as he ever gets.
‘I say! What?’, was all he could come up with.
The Glaswegian continued, ignoring Ian’s protests that he could not possibly f*** out of Scotland at such short notice.
‘You!’, he said – the grin back on - pointing a stubby finger at me, ‘and you’, this time looking cheerfully at the Nigerian, ‘are invited to the pub – free drinks on me. You’re visitors to Scotland!’
Ian had by now lapsed into silence, and was probably wondering when the Glaswegian would pull a carving knife out to expedite the process of his f***ing out of Scotland.
The Glaswegian turned to him and said, ‘NO Drinks for You, mate.’
And then, with a parting wave to us, and a muttered ‘go back to England’ to Ian, our cheery Glaswegian took leave of us.
And he never did tell us what the name of ‘his’ pub was…
I’m leaving on a short tour of London during my mid-semester break next week. It promises to be a fun trip – what with six of us haunting the old metropolis for three whole days. But unfortunately, before I can leave, there are pressing issues such as an assignment that I have to deal with. So the next week will presumably be spent in writing in a little-known but much-hated foreign language called Java. So, until then, adios amigos…or as the Scots are wont to say, Cheers Mate!!
Thursday, September 29, 2005
A Scottish photoblog
Weekdays being what they are, I did not have any time at all to get down to penning a blog. But since my weekend begins on Friday and I don't plan to get up before 12 tomorrow in any case, I spent hours toiling over my first photo blog on The Blog of Small Things
This photoblog takes the reader/viewer through the whole of my last Saturday, which was - to put it very mildly - a great day!
So, please do scroll down and look through the images I have painstakingly compiled, and maybe read the corny captions that I've penned.
(Of course you can leave, but you won't, will you? Huh huh?)
Till then, comment allez vous monseuirs et mesdames. (Pleeease!)
This photoblog takes the reader/viewer through the whole of my last Saturday, which was - to put it very mildly - a great day!
So, please do scroll down and look through the images I have painstakingly compiled, and maybe read the corny captions that I've penned.
(Of course you can leave, but you won't, will you? Huh huh?)
Till then, comment allez vous monseuirs et mesdames. (Pleeease!)
The Erasmus Mundus class of 2007. The guy with the funky, Dil Chahta Hai-style facial growth is our professor, supervisor, God and Mwbangwa (For those who came in late, that’s Swahili for He-Whom-We-Must-Worship-and-Prostrate-Before-If-We-Don’t-Want -Our-Grades-To-Stink-Worse-Than-Our-Shit). As for me, I’m (mercifully) in the shadows towards the end of the table.
And so, That's all, folks!
Sunday, September 18, 2005
A week and I know not where it went!
It has been almost a whole week since I stepped into the land of the Scots. And, if I were to put it mildly and try to understate it a bit, I think I would just use the word fabulous.
The past week was what is called orientation by the brass hats, and funtime by most students.
Edinburgh is a gloriously multicultural city, and my flat seems to reflect this multiculturatism to a T. I stay with another Indian, a Pakistani, a Jordanian, a Nigerian, an Englishman, and three Chinese. And that’s quite a lot – even if I am yet to speak to the Chinese, mainly because my Chinese doesn’t pass muster.;-)
Apart from the usual free pizza lunches and orientation programmes that are the hallmark of orientation weeks everywhere, the Students’ Association at Edinburgh offers a LOT more in the form of free parties. The international student centre is what is usually at the forefront of these parties, and provide the free drinks. And usually ensure there is a good attendance of hot chicks from the continent. Phew!!
Another interesting bit I noticed over this past one week was how much people knew about India. And more interestingly, how little I knew about India.
I reproduce below snatches of a conversation I had with a Polish girl –
‘Hey, so you’re Indian! Wow, I’m really interested in India’
‘So am I’, said I, rather wittily, for one always tries to impress with the Warrier charm, ‘, though that’s probably because I’m Indian. But I’m interested in Poland too.’
‘Ah Poland is a small place – India is beautiful. Are you Hindu or muslim?’
That was an easy one. I answered it with a smile playing on my lips.
But it was not over. She continued with an even trickier one,
‘Are you shivite or vaishnavite?’
When one tries to strike a conversation with a girl, one prefers to talk of lots of things. But my religious affliation is not often among my favourite topics. Though nonplussed, I hummed and hawed non-committaly about believing in monotheism.
‘Oh wow! Have you been to Vaishno Devi?’
‘Er…no’
It was then that another Austrian chap who, also, unfortunately seemed to know a little too much about India stepped in.
‘Have you seen the widows of Varanasi?’
I knew this one! I answered with aplomb, ‘Oh! That was the story of that movie called Water. A bunch of simians from the Bajrang Dal burnt the sets down – so didn’t watch it. Did you read the script?’
The two of them looked at each other.
‘Uh…there are real widows in Varanasi’
‘There are widows everywhere. And they are often as real as you or me.’
‘No, I mean, there are widows who are prostitutes.’
I thought of talking of the parts of India I knew and said, ‘Shah Rukh Khan’s cool’
The polish girl waved it off, ‘Ahh bollywood is good, but I want to know if you speak Sanskrit!’
This was my chance. I’d sweep her off her feet with a rendition of a few choice words in Sanskrit. Even if I couldn’t remember them, I could make something up.
‘Aham Vaanar: asti – that means, I am pleased to meet you!’
‘No you just told me about your ancestry. Tvam Vanaar: aevam kukkur: asti’
‘Er…what exactly are you studying here?’, I asked, desperate to change the topic.
‘Oh, I’m doing my B.A. in Sanskrit. I wanted to study at JNU, but they didn’t give me an admit’
…… Next time, I don't pretend to be an Indian intellectual, but reveal myself for the boor I am!
P.S: I've also been awarded a Laboratory Demonstrator position to teach First Years with water in the brain how to program. Maybe it's an all-girl class!
P.S:
The past week was what is called orientation by the brass hats, and funtime by most students.
Edinburgh is a gloriously multicultural city, and my flat seems to reflect this multiculturatism to a T. I stay with another Indian, a Pakistani, a Jordanian, a Nigerian, an Englishman, and three Chinese. And that’s quite a lot – even if I am yet to speak to the Chinese, mainly because my Chinese doesn’t pass muster.;-)
Apart from the usual free pizza lunches and orientation programmes that are the hallmark of orientation weeks everywhere, the Students’ Association at Edinburgh offers a LOT more in the form of free parties. The international student centre is what is usually at the forefront of these parties, and provide the free drinks. And usually ensure there is a good attendance of hot chicks from the continent. Phew!!
Another interesting bit I noticed over this past one week was how much people knew about India. And more interestingly, how little I knew about India.
I reproduce below snatches of a conversation I had with a Polish girl –
‘Hey, so you’re Indian! Wow, I’m really interested in India’
‘So am I’, said I, rather wittily, for one always tries to impress with the Warrier charm, ‘, though that’s probably because I’m Indian. But I’m interested in Poland too.’
‘Ah Poland is a small place – India is beautiful. Are you Hindu or muslim?’
That was an easy one. I answered it with a smile playing on my lips.
But it was not over. She continued with an even trickier one,
‘Are you shivite or vaishnavite?’
When one tries to strike a conversation with a girl, one prefers to talk of lots of things. But my religious affliation is not often among my favourite topics. Though nonplussed, I hummed and hawed non-committaly about believing in monotheism.
‘Oh wow! Have you been to Vaishno Devi?’
‘Er…no’
It was then that another Austrian chap who, also, unfortunately seemed to know a little too much about India stepped in.
‘Have you seen the widows of Varanasi?’
I knew this one! I answered with aplomb, ‘Oh! That was the story of that movie called Water. A bunch of simians from the Bajrang Dal burnt the sets down – so didn’t watch it. Did you read the script?’
The two of them looked at each other.
‘Uh…there are real widows in Varanasi’
‘There are widows everywhere. And they are often as real as you or me.’
‘No, I mean, there are widows who are prostitutes.’
I thought of talking of the parts of India I knew and said, ‘Shah Rukh Khan’s cool’
The polish girl waved it off, ‘Ahh bollywood is good, but I want to know if you speak Sanskrit!’
This was my chance. I’d sweep her off her feet with a rendition of a few choice words in Sanskrit. Even if I couldn’t remember them, I could make something up.
‘Aham Vaanar: asti – that means, I am pleased to meet you!’
‘No you just told me about your ancestry. Tvam Vanaar: aevam kukkur: asti’
‘Er…what exactly are you studying here?’, I asked, desperate to change the topic.
‘Oh, I’m doing my B.A. in Sanskrit. I wanted to study at JNU, but they didn’t give me an admit’
…… Next time, I don't pretend to be an Indian intellectual, but reveal myself for the boor I am!
P.S: I've also been awarded a Laboratory Demonstrator position to teach First Years with water in the brain how to program. Maybe it's an all-girl class!
P.S:
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