The Great (and Hastily Planned) British Roadtrip

Preamble:

Thanks to those lovely people at Easyjet, our Swiss trip came to an end before it even began - at Manchester airport's departure lounge. I cannot deny that I was incredibly worried about the value of the monopoly money Galiya and I earn our keep in (also known as Pound Sterling) in Switzerland, and was fretting and fuming over how much the whole thing would cost.

The previous night, I dreamt that we were going to Zimbabwe, and we were buying Zim $s from Robert Mugabe himself. We handed him our Pound Sterling, and Mugabe said, "Pound Sterling! Ha!!! I'll get you 20 Zim $s for a quid. Now, if on the other hand, you had Euros, you'd get five million Zim $s to a Euro."

But no amount of fretting over the costs could make up for the braindead moron at the Easyjet desk in the departure lounge not allowing Galiya to board the flight. She said, "This is a German visa, and you're flying to Switzerland." No amount of explaining that a German residence permit was valid in Switzerland inspite of it not having the magic 'Schengen' word on it would budge her, and because she was a complete moron, she refused to call Swiss immigration.

Hence, it was a very despondent couple that ended up on the train to Wirral to pick up our car from Jon's house, where we'd stowed it away. As we walked through the gates, neither of us had particularly pleasant thoughts running through our minds (or rather, Galiya's mind, and what passes for a mind in my case). But then, an incredible act of kindness on the part of Jon's mum changed it all!

She invited us to Christmas lunch - an offer we could not possibly refuse. It was far better than moping about at home ranting loudly about how unfair life was.

And better still, Jon and his family helped us plan what promises to be an incredible trip through Cymru (that's Wales for the anglophiles among you, you imperialist pigs!). The trip also promises to be far cheaper, as Wales uses the same play money we earn our little all in. And this trip is what this blogpost is all about:

And now, I can talk all about our planned trip to Wales, after all of the circumlocution that is my hallmark.

The primary actors in this trip are:

a) Siddhu Warrier: Intellectual prostitute extraordinaire, who pretends to be a writer.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Intellectual prostitute - and bore - from India"][/caption]

b) Galiia Khasanova: Russian dyevushka unfortunate enough to be betrothed to yon Warrier.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="A Russian Dyevushka who is kind to Indians who whistle incessantly while blogging."][/caption]

c) Vladimir Illyich Micranov: Japanese Samurai with socialist leanings, as evidenced by the duct tape on the roof.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Vladimir Illyich Micranov - soldier of the socialist revolution"][/caption]

d) Cymru/Wales: A beautiful little principality to the east of England.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Cymru - Welsh for "This is not England, you bleeding idiot!""][/caption]

The trip is spread over four days, and each day's itinerary follows. Forgive me if this is boring, but consider this my initiation into the world of travel writing. Since I do seem to do so much of it, it doth make sense I try to write about it.

The routes we plan to take during this trip remind me of an old chestnut by G.K. Chesterton - Paradise by way of Kensal Green,
because I think it is the circuituousness of this route (and of the
roads therein) that make this whole trip so quintessentially British.
To misquote (horribly, historically inaccurately, and out of context) from the poem,

Before
the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,

The
rolling Welsh drunkard made the rolling Welsh road.

A
reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the Sir,

The
night we went to Aberytswyth by way of Betws-y-Coed.

The
night we went to Llanelli by way of Hwlffordd.

The night we went to Caerdydd by way of Aberhonddu.

Day 1: Liverpool to Aberystwyth by way of Betws-y-Coed


This is where we shall pass through during our first day (Please click on View Larger Map to see the actual route):


View Larger Map

This night, we are staying at a guest house called the Shoreline guest house in a Victorian seaside town (now a university town) called Aberystwyth - it's hard enough to spell, so don't ask me exactly how it's pronounced. WLe couldn't find any pictures online, but the reviews on tripadvisor were good enough to convince us to take the risk. Also, the price, at £50 for the night, is pretty damn cheap (that'll probably be worth about €1.50 in a couple of weeks, so please come over, spend money in the UK, and help Gordon Brown save the world, oh ye continental Europeans).

Day 2: Aberystwyth to Llanelli by way of Sir Benfro (Pembrokeshire)


This is the route we shall be taking on Day 2:


View Larger Map

Llanelli (pronounced - I think - something like Crhlanelli) was picked merely because of the sheer quaintness of this little B&B (Bed and Breakfast) we found there, called Beudy Bach (pronounced something like Baidy Bach). It's not terribly expensive at £60, but not too cheap either. But then, we're on our Gord-given mission to save the British economy, aren't we?!

The route to Llanelli was chosen because it goes through a national park that was strongly recommended by Jon's parents. Pembrokeshire was also the site of some WW2 era prisoner-of-war camps. I can't remember where I read it, but some of the Italian POWs integrated so well into Wales during their time there that they decided not to go back upon the cessation of hostilities.

Day 3: Llanelli to Caerdydd by way of Aberhonddu:

The route we plan to take on this day is:


View Larger Map

In the Brecon national park is present a mountain range called the Brecon Beacons. They are named thus because of the beacons the Welsh lit when the English came-a-invading. To paraphrase a Welsh person, the difference between the English invasions of Scotland and Wales was that the highlanders fought the English punch-drunk on whisky, while the Welsh went into hiding. From the looks of it, the fighting didn't make much of a difference, except for the creation of a large Scottish population in America. But I digress.

We spend the night in Cardiff in rather an unromantic place - the Hotel Ibis. But £39 for a night is too good a deal to pass up on, especially when it comes with free wireless internet access! ;) We look forward to Cardiff (Caerdydd for those of us who'd like to pretend to be Welsh) because of all that Jon has told us of its vibrant nightlife.

Day 4: The Return (or the detour to England)

We haven't quite planned Day 4 just yet, and aren't yet sure if there will be a Day 5. We will try to keep you posted.

The weather seems to be uncharacteristically sunny for all of the days we plan to travel - God's (or the Flying Spaghetti Monster's) way of making up for our Swiss disaster, perhaps?

Updates on Twitter:

For those of you who might be interested in tuning into (hopefully) regular updates on the progress of our trip, I should be updating my status fairly regularly on Twitter at http://twitter.com/siddhuw . Yes, I'm trying desperately to build up a following on Twitter.

A Kerala Communist Primer

This is the last post that shall rear its ugly head on http://siddhuw.blogspot.com. This blog, due to inactivity, is moving to Wordpress - http://siddhuw.wordpress.com, hoping that the change of host shall result in a spurt of activity. Yes, it's rather like Ektaaaa KKKappooor affixing extra ts and Ks and as to get people watching. And I think it works; if it weren't for the extra Ks strewn all over the place, I can't imagine even most the addled housewife watching Kyonki Saans bhi kabhi bahu thi.

But if this blog must die, let it never be said that it did not die with an all-powerful bang (possibly from the barrel of a gun fired at me by a comrade peeved by what follows).

If you are ever to visit Kerala, you might notice these strange blokes in white, starched dhotis waving red flags about the place. How you react to this depends on where you're from.

If you're American, you'll probably dash a letter off to homeland security advising them that Indians are commies, and it's best to keep them out.

If you're British (and a member of the TUC), you shall shed copious tears as your mind harks back to the joys that Thatcher snatched away from you.

If you're from anywhere in the rest of India, you'll probably sit down waiting to see the police descend upon the crowd and beat the crap out of them for daring to protest. And be disappointed to note that the police are sloganeering themselves.

But whatever your particular persuasion, I am sure you would appeciate a quick primer on what the communists and other miscellaneous protesters in Kerala mean when they shout out loud as they block traffic on the main street.

1. Communistaykyam zindabad:
Translation: Long live international Communist unity.
What they really mean: Remember, Beijing is paying your bills.

2. Vidyaarthiaykyam zindabad:
Translation: Students of the world, unite.
What they really mean: What fun it is to spend all day out in the sun, instead of staying cooped up listening to the capitalist claptrap the bourgeois try to pass on to us as education.

3. Loka thozhilaalikale onnikyu:
Translation: Workers of the world, unite.
What they really mean: Let Kerala not be the only place where nobody does any work.

4. Poticheriyan vilangukal:
Translation: Break and cast aside the capitalist chains.
What they really mean: Bankrupt the idiot who's given us a job by protesting all day outside the factory.

5. Sakhakkalae munnott:
Translation: Onward, Comrades.
What they really mean: Let's protest until we have a dictatorship of the proletariat that puts an end to all of this meaningless protest.

6. Inquilab zindabad:
Translation: Long live the Revolution.
What they really mean: We know the revolution ended years ago/never happened, but we're not going to stop blocking traffic, merely because of trifles like that, are we?

Brought to you by the boys of the Sakhaavu Lenin Proletarian Reading Room and Youth Club, Thodupuzha, Kerala.

Impressed by Gordon Brown

I know the bloke's been getting a lot of flak, and his terror detention law is absolutely reprehensible, but he does seem sometimes to talk a lot more sense than most western politicos would care to in relation to the Israeli occupation of Palestine.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/7516379.stm

Wish he meant it, and if he does, wish Olmert would listen to him!

An ode to duct tape

Due to an unfortunate concatenation of circumstances, we decided we should open my car's sunroof yesterday. Now, this being Britain, my sunroof hardly got any practice over the years. As we tried to open it, the cable snapped, and the sunroof wouldn't close completely. When everything with the world looked gray, bleak, and cost at least £120, a little bit of gray in the name of duct tape dropped from the heavens.

An ode to duct tape (modified from Melody William's ode)

I have to say that my world is gray,
not because of compromises made
or morals in the shade,
but because of a sticky tape
and the way it takes shape.
There are so many uses
and not many abuses
of this great sticky mess
this component of my car
That keeps out the rain and the tar,
Keeps it dry as I drive afar.
Ode to duct tape, my best friend;
Ode to duct tape,
may the gray never end.

Stripped, Part I

Note to prudes and author's parents: This is a work of fiction. Honest.

I do not remember whose idea it was to start with. I have a nagging fear in the back of my mind that it was my putrid mind that came up with it to start with. However, arguing over who thought of it first is neither here nor there. All of us had to live through the consequences of the brainwave.

Now that the first paragraph has set the mood and got the reader all curious about what this tome is all about, it is probably a good time to get the elbow grease flowing (if flowing is what elbow grease does) and start at the beginning. Note: The author is well aware that his absolutely pointless digression here is likely to have chased away a large proportion of his reading public. However, he chooses to ignore this possibility as the possibility that he had no readers to start with is more imminent.

It all began when C decided to leave Europe and return to Mexico. That he missed Tex-Mex food, being called gringo, and wearing those wide-brimmed hats they are prone to wear in Mexico cut no ice with the rest of us who were to continue our stay in Europe.

'But', cried C,' go I must, cabron. It's been three long years since I last tried to scale the border wall into the States.'

'How about the Berlin wall, mate?', I rejoined, '... or Hadrian's wall. I'll give you that there are no trigger-happy rednecks with M16s to add to the thrill at either place – but you can make the adjustment, can't you?'

But no, C was obdurate. He refused to listen to reason, and had already found a bag large enough to stow away in. It was final.

Us Warriers have always been standard-bearers of the tradition of noblesse oblige, rather like the Woosters we copied it from. So I began to plot a farewell suitable for a king, or at least a C.

B (whose name bears not the slightest resemblance to a marked protuberance of the waist) suggested we drown our sorrows in drink. But given every one of his ideas seem to feature drowning something or the other (usually one's own liver) in drink, I ignored him.

After prolonged mental gymanstics, I arrived upon the perfect solution. Or what I thought was the perfect solution. So, I gave G a ring.

'Hi hon, I've come up with the perfect solution to our problem.', I screamed, literally bursting with excitement.

'That's brilliant. When's the funeral?', said she.

I was bemused. 'Whose funeral?'

'Yours'

To say that I was confused would be to put it rather mildly. 'But I don't plan on dying anytime soon, last I heard.'

'Ah right, so it's another problem you're talking about.'

'That's not the right line to take. I thought we conducted our relationship strictly on turtle dove lines.', said I, rather peeved.

'I'm usually not averse to turtle doves (or doves of any other sort). But the situation alters somewhat if you insist on blowing my ear off screaming.'

After having duly apologised for my slight, as I have been trained to, I went on, 'I meant that I think I know what we could do to bid adieu to C.'

Her ears pricked up at this (or at least, I think they did; it's difficult to tell over a voice-only phone line). 'What do you plan?'

'You know, we're going to Spain next week, yeah? And we've rented a flat, yeah? And you know that C and B are joining us there, don't you?', I said.

'I can't have forgotten, can I? Considering I bought you your tickets back, you freeloader!'

Though I cringed at the slight, I decided to let it pass. The idea was too good to hold on to any longer.

'How about we get a stripper to come over to the flat, rather like in American Pie 3? It would be a stag party, except he's not getting married to some unfortunate popsy.'

'The only unfortunate 'popsy' I can think of is myself', rejoined she. There was rather a harsh edge to her voice.

'Uh, should I take it that you don't like the idea...?'

'No, I bloody well don't. First off, how's it a stag party if I'm around..?'

'Oops...'

'Oops is right. After all this time, don't tell me you've never realised I was a woman, and have been actively searching for places that permitted gay marriage now!'

My head swum at the bewildering complexity of the previous sentence. It was a minute before I managed to stutter, 'Er... sorry, darling.'

Silence ensued.

'So there's no question of bringing a stripper home, then?'

'NO!'

'Oh alright then.', said I, defeated.

'We could go to a club though, if you like...'

I ventured cautiously. Long experience had taught me to tread cautiously, especially in the wake of spectacular booboos of the sort I had just committed.

'Er... a club, as in...?'

'A strip club, of course. C can have his farewell lapdance there.'

A childhood full of nasty surprises of the 'Santa doesn't exist' sort had left me rather lacking in faith in my guardian angel. But it all came rushing back to me at this instant. Getting spousal (or soon-to-be spousal) sanction to enter the hallowed portals of a strip club is not something that one receives too often.

After resisting the (foolhardy) itch to ask if I were allowed a lapdance by a stripper as well, I hung up to continue the plotting.

To be continued...

News and all that kind of jazz

As regular readers (if I have any left) are well aware, I have rather fallen out of the habit of writing quite as regularly as I used to. The era of my highest productivity harks back to a time when I was single, and entirely convinced of my complete inability to captivate a woman who wasn't (a) ugly as sin, and (b) younger than forty. As it has always been my considered opinion that what the human race needs most is the opportunity to have a good laugh at another's expense, I regularly regaled my reading public with (sadly true) stories of my ineptitude.

However, a serendipitous concatenation of circumstances has happily proved me wrong. Contrary to most predictions that I would die alone and be subsequently gobbled up by ravenous Alsatians (or Dobermans, if you prefer that), I did end up meeting a popsy who did not see such a morbid fate for me. That was a year ago, and my blogging frequency stands testimony to that. While I might – quite fairly – lay the blame for my unproductivity at her doorstep, I think I have been most suitably recompensed in several other ways.

After spending several months in bliss, during which I blew my savings up travelling around rather a large swathe of the old continent, a brainwave struck me sometime last Christmas. I had previously been made aware of how cheap everything was on Boxing day (which, to the uninitated, falls on the 26^th of December).

'Hmm, old chap, what say you about getting hitched and all that?', said the fevered bit of my mind to the rest.

'Get engaged? Are you insane? Do you know how much rings cost!?'

'It's Boxing Day, mate. Discounts!'

'Alright!'

So, the aforementioned popsy and I walked along to Princes street in Edinburgh, which wa s where I knew I would find the discounted ring my fevered mind spoke so highly of. But first, I had to get rid of her.

'Hey, look, Next has a sale!', said I.

'Cool, let's pop by and take a look.', said she, rather unhelpfully.

'No, I'd rather not.'

'Oh okay then, let's just walk around'

'No, I think they're selling lingerie there. And I'd rather avoid the embarassment of looking like a perv checking out women's underwear. You go ahead.'

After I'd got rid of her, I scooted off to the Swarovski outlet to pick a ring up. I hadn't bargained on one thing, though – a smiling helpful salesperson angling for a tip for her role in executing what is probably the most important decision in one's life.

After staving her repeated attempts to be excessively helpful, and trying not to blush as she kept throwing knowing looks at me, I managed to pick a ring that looked just about right.

Now, what a sensible bloke would do would be to book a place at a swanky restaurant for that evening, and take yon popsy there to pop the question. But I'm not a sensible bloke; worse still, I am parsimonious to a fault.

So, I dragged her along to a Starbucks and popped the question.

And incredibly enough, she said Yes!

(I got rather an earful for asking a question as important as this at a place like Starbucks, and did end up having to pay for an expensive restaurant. Also, my ring selection skills left much to be desired – we returned to Swarovski to exchange the ring for another.)

Anyway, there you have it, folks – I'm engaged to be married. :)

-- End of bulletin --

The White Tiger

This is one book I'm definitely buying. Arvind Adiga was a correspondent for Time Magazine, and he writes a fable that could possibly come true in the 'booming, shining' India we can't get out of our heads.

A few quotes from an interview of his by Arthur J. Pais,

1. The shameless way wealth is flaunted [in India] is extraordinary. Poor people [see] the money the very rich have.

2. The Indian economy is booming but the money was [is] not really getting down to the poor and the difference in the world between the rich and the poor was phenomenal.

3. To say that the divide between the rich and the poor, and the invisibility of the poor is an issue that has been `dealt with' is to trivialise its profound and perpetual importance. The problem is omnipresent, its manifestations keep changing

And most importantly and prophetically, perhaps:

4. ...in India, amidst the hoopla and hype of the economic boom, the poor are more invisible than ever before, and the dangers of ignoring them are greater than ever before: The proof of this is in the resurgent Naxalite, armed rebellion in the heart of India, where communist guerrillas, fighting in the name of the poor, are waging a brutal war against the state.

Read the full interview here.
http://www.rediff.com/news/2008/may/02inter1.htm

Dire warnings...

It's not often that I find a place so repulsive that I wish to make a public statement regarding its unfitness for a visit. However, this is one of those times.

Dehradun was presumably a beautiful place. Ruskin Bond did quite like it. But today, it's probably a place best avoided unless you're immediately taking a bus out to Mussoorie. The city is filthy, dusty (my hands and hair are caked with dust), and full of rude autorickshaw drivers who are bandits (they're worse than any I've seen anywhere in India!). Oh, and there's absolutely nothing worth seeing.

Delhi Musings

When Lonely Planet issued dire warnings of touts in ConnaughtPlace, I cast it nary a glance. As a pukka Hindustani, I believed I was unlikely to be caused much grief by them.

But boy, was I ever wrong? Every travel agency claims to be the sole official representative of the Indian government, and has a couple of seedy looking characters trying to dupe you into their office. These people are easy enough to shake off (though one of them was alarmingly aggressive).

However, what I hadn't bargained for was that perfectly respectable lookign people could be part of this racket. I was standing on Connaught Circus trying my ludicrously poor map-reading skills out when two blokes came along unbidden and showed me the way to get to where I wanted to get to.

After thanking the two nice young men profusely, I carried along in the suggested direction. But, these two blokes decided to walk alongside me:

'To Bhaiyya, aap kidhar se hain?' (Brother, where are you from?)

'Hindustan', I replied brusquely, having caught on to their game.

'Hindustan to bada desh hain. Aap kaun se kone se hain? Humari tourist office hain na, isliye hum aapki madad kar sakte hain' (India is a big country. Which corner are you from? Y'see, we've got this tourist office, and can help you in Delhi.)

I decided to get rid of these people by seeing if the Indo-Pak peace process has had any effect.

'Theek hain, main sarhad ke us paar se hoon' (I'm from the other side of the border - common parlance for Pakistan).

'Oh aap Pakistani bhai hain. Jaaiye, bhaisaab' (Oh you're a Pakistani brother. Carry on, brother.'

While it's laudab;e that a Pakistani is allowed to walk aruond Delhi unmolested, it is rather depressing that it doesn't stop them from annoying their own countrymen.

Other Random Musings

1. I have never in my entire life head so much foul lanugage in such a short space of time. 'Behenchod' (Sisterf***er) seems to feature in every sentence, and serves the role of a noun, adjective, and verb from what I could perceive. And everybody - from the well-dressed young chap in the 3-piece suit to the gaggle of noisy 10-year olds on the bus - is in on it!

2. Either everybody else in Delhi suffers from some debilitating physiological disorder, or I've become a quasi-firang. Everybody around me seems to be dressed for a cold winter with scarves, caps, jumpers, and even fleece jackets. I, on the other hand, am sweating in my shirtsleeves.

3. A sucker is born everyday. I just saw a bunch of firang tourists profusely thanking an autodriver for taking them to the India Tourist Office (if you read the small print on the sign board, it's run by 'United Travels' and has nothing to do with the Government of India). Some people will never learn.

P.S.: Scribbled on 18/02 in a Cafe on Connaught Circus, Delhi, shamelessly sitting next to a coochie-cooing couple.

P.P.S: The female half of the aforementioned couple is cute.

Edit: I guess lots of you aren't aware of the fact that 'Paki' is one of the most racist swear words used in the UK. And yes, us Indians - in the eyes of the aforementioned racists - are 'Pakis' too. Because of that and the slightly pejorative tone taken in some of the comments towards Pakistanis that could offend my Pakistani readers, I have disabled comments for this post. I apologise if it seems rude, but I feel it would be best to do so.

Dr. Shaikh the sex doctor

Uttar Pradesh seems to be flooded with quacks hawking their 'skills' to everybody travelling by train through the state. Ever since the train crossed the state border into UP, every single square inch of space not taken u by people going about their ablutions in the puvlic eye seems to have been taken over by advertisements in the Devnagri script for the aforementioned medical practitioners.

It all started with Dr. Zafar whose pharmacy at some lace called Dholpur was advertised to all and sundry in a 10-mile radius. However, if this Dr. Zafar's success rate is anything like that of his Mughal namesake, I think I'll stay away.

Where Dr. Zafar's reign ends, Drs. Raj and Shaikh take over. Dr. Shaikh is the one that interests us.

Dr. Shaikh's advertisements invariably go, 'Sex Rogi miliye Dr. Shaikh se' (Literally: Sex patients, meet Dr. Shaikh'. The good doctor also treats Gupt Rog (Secret illnesses). What these secret diseases are is beyond me - for instance, I find a running nose highly embarassing, and would like to keep it a secret. I wonder if the good Dr. Shaikh can help me out there.

Sayr e-Hindustan

I am currently in my homeland; spending the longest time I have there since 2005. As I walked around a bookstore in Chennai, I stumbled upon a Lonely Planet guidebook for India (‘stumbled upon’ would probably be an incorrect phrase given that the India guidebook was probably the hardest thing to find in the store – Lonely Planet guidebooks to every other place in the world, Papua New Guinea included, were dime a dozen).

After I had bought it for a certain somebody whom I’m desperately trying to convince to visit India, I began to read through it myself. The more I read it, the more I realised that I had not really seen my own country (not since 1993 anyway). And thus, the plan germinated in the vast empty space above my eyebrows that passes for a brain – a trip across a bit of India.

The original plan included going to Mumbai, but the activities allegedly inspired by a certain unnamed person who shall remain nameless put an end to those plans (especially since I would be heading down to Mumbai from the North, and I had no desire to see myself in the middle of a Godhraesque firestorm). So, currently, my plan – much curtailed – involves:

Chennai – Delhi (17/02/08 0610 – 18/02/08 1015): Followed by a day spent exploring the Delhi of the last son of the house of Timur the Tatar.

Delhi – Dehradun (18/02/08 2315 – 19/02/08 0500): I plan to take a bus up to Mussoorie from Dehradun, and then spend two nights in Mussoorie – reputed to be the Queen of Indian hill stations. And, unlike Shimla - my original choice, delightfully monkey-free.

Delhi –Chennai (22/02/08; hopefully 1955): A Deccan Air flight that should get me back home by 2250 – if they decide to take off on time for a change, that is. Coincidentally, this flight within India’s borders will take a good bit longer than a flight from Scotland to Germany.

Photos should follow on http://picasaweb.google.com/siddhuwarrier if you are at all interested.

P.S.: Especially if you’re not Indian, I would imagine the latest two albums (from Chennai and Mahabalipuram) would be of interest to you.

P.P.S.: I apologise for the shoddy grammar in this post; I’m tired and sleepy.

A Taxi in Belfast

My best friends know I am no shutterbug. It is but rarely that I take the camera out to take photos of anything that does not bear a striking resemblance to myself. Most of my photos thus end up looking something like this:

Or the photos have to be just plain ridiculous; something like this:

But the other day, when I was walking down Belfast, I saw this taxicab. As most people who live in the UK know, most (actually, if I'm not mistaken, all) cabs in the UK are the same kind – called black cabs. While they're very comfortable and all that, they're not designed to get you to drool. In fact, they look only slightly better than the 'trusty' old Ambassador.

This taxi, however, was not one of those. Though built by the same company, it was an older model – a model that harked back to an earlier era where young men wore spats, debutantes presented themselves to the queen, Gandhi still wore clothes, and Nehru still had hair. Though I'm not sure if Nehru wasn't born bald.

I asked the taxi driver if I may snap a photo of his vehicle. This being Ireland, a simple yes wouldn't suffice, of course. The taxi driver looked up, smiled and said, 'Sure, but it would be even better to take a few pictures of the interior while you're taking a paid ride.'

'Er... I'm broke.'

'Oh, no worries then.'

He then went on to tell me how this model was more reliable than the 'new fangled contraptions' they've got down in Edinburgh or London, as it had been tested. He also told me, rather wistfully, that his chrome bumpers were missing. Then, he gave me yet another reminder of why I love Ireland and the Irish so much – he opened the door, and allowed me to sit in the driver's seat and take a gander at the wooden instrument panel.

One of those things that can happen only in the emerald isle, innit!

Some good craic in Eire.

I apologise for having been tardy with my updates for an extremely long time. I have no excuses. Well, I do have excuses; but none that will wash. However, I am happy (or sorry) to inform the minuscule few that still frequent my blog to check for updates (or to confirm its demise prior to holding a party to celebrate the end of the murder of the Queen's language) that I do have a fair bit to write about over the next few days.

I have just got back from a trip to Ireland, a country (or should I say countries?) that I have fallen in love with entirely and completely. There is so much to write about; so many colourful personalities to dissect - I don't know where to begin.

But at the present moment, teeming as I am with ideas, I find myself too tired to write any more. So I leave you with a short video of this Irish bloke singing a folk song at a pub in this little village in South Armagh, Northern Ireland. Those of you who can't seem to appreciate it are eejits, skeets, or both. Oh, and youse can bite the back of me bollix.

P.S.: Talk of verbosity! 200 words and I said I had nothing to say. :)

India 'Shining' - my bloomin' arse

Warning: Highly cynical post ahead.

The other day, a friend of mine called me over to this pub where a few new Indian students were meeting up. One of the people at this little gathering was this girl who was, I was informed, a political science graduate from rather a respected university. Though I am no more than a dilettante in affairs political as a Computer Scientist, we got into a discussion.

'India is shining, you know... it's the Indian century and all that. We have reason to be optimistic.', said she, almost shamelessly plagiarising from the Goldman Sachs report.

I decided to ask her why she felt that way. She went on, 'Oh, you know, there are so many malls. Now, even Marks and Spencers has come to India. Brand India has gone global. Tata is one of the world's biggest steelmakers, and an Indian like Mittal is so obscenely rich. I mean, who would have thought we could get a McDonalds burger or chicken wings from KFC in 1991! There's this new breed of Indians; hungry, brash and spending. You should see all the cars in ' .

As she waxed eloquent - perched inside her ivory tower - oblivious and blind to the poverty of the vast majority of our countrymen, I was reminded of another conversation I had with another girl of my acquaintaince a few months earlier, where she spoke with astonishing naivety on how India was almost a developed country because of IT, 'outsourcing', luxury condos, McDonalds, Walmart and malls. Oh, and I almost forgot about how she believed sweatshop owners in Tirupur who cynically exploit their workers in blatant contravention of labour laws and the Geneva convention (let's not talk of their tax evasion) are actually helping the poor.

No, my post is not about the almost criminal ignorance of the middle-class Indian in her glasshouse, but about how anybody can possibly think India is 'shining'.


Just to start with, let's take a look at everything the media (particularly the trashy tabloids) seem to be going on and on about:

1. The economic powerhouse that is India:

Yeah for IT - now us Indians can buy so many different kinds of cars! Oh yes, let's not concern ourselves too much with the fact that inequality levels are 14 percent worse today than they were in 1991.

The fourth and fifth richest men in the world are Indian (Mukesh Ambani and Lakshmi Nivas Mittal). Who cares then that 77% of our population - that's almost 800 million people - leave on less than Rs. 20 a day?

Why do we, as the educated middle class, continue to ignore the poverty that stares us in our face. I wrote a few months ago about a dispossessed vegetable seller called Pandian. Why do we ignore the Pandians of this country?

Before anybody starts talking of the trickle-down effect (the aforementioned girl at the pub did), could somebody please tell me why there's a rise in inequality?! Why is that, sixty years on, 77% of us do not have the means to live a decent life free of want?

2. 'The political climate is changing. Gandhigiri and the Right to Information (RTI) act are revolutionising the way the country is run!'

How desperate (or stupid) must one be to clutch to a straw as weak as Gandhigiri, an inane concept introduced in a Bollywood potboiler starring a man convicted to six years in prison. As for RTI, why hasn't RTI found Rajan's body yet? Why was Rajan killed in the first place?

And Rajan is not alone. Everyday, millions of us face abuse and pain at the hands of our protectors, the police force. For some of us, especially the more economically disadvantaged, it's worse.

3. 'Feel Good'

People who use the phrase 'feel good' should watch this video to see what 'feel good' is all about - a cynical spin put on events!

If things were so good for everybody, where have the Maoists found the groundswell of support for their movement; so much so that Maoists control 28% of India's districts.

Why is it that there are insurgencies in Kashmir and the North-east of the country? A foreign power cannot sustain an insurrection for very long without support from the local populace (as the collapse of the Khalistan movement illustrates).

4. Reservation and all that kind of thing:

Starting with Devraj Urs and the cynically evil Mrs. G (version 1), caste has risen to take its place as the new class, with VP Singh making it all the worse, and Arjun Singh adding the final touches. So much so that as a forward caste Hindu, a person like me is among the most underprivileged in society.

(Of course, if one looks back far enough, one can see where our brown Sahibs have perfected the technique from - Lord Curzon and the division of Bengal, anyone?)

If this wasn't enough division, and the Hindus and Muslims didn't hate each other enough already, the honourable Mr. Sachchar is working towards reservation for Muslims as well. This is such a cynical gambit I'm surprised Muslim leaders don't see through it themselves.

Indian Muslims are poor and under-educated, and they're discriminated against (watch the Channel 4 documentary on India where a security guard in Mumbai proudly proclaims that Muslims are 'not allowed' in a housing development if you want to see what I mean). The solution would be to deal with the roots of the prejudice, and to try heal the scars of an unnecessary partition of the country.

Instead, what Sachchar does is to highlight their grievances, tell them they're ill-treated in this country, and make them feel worse than they already do (with some justification). And then, hand them reservation; so that the Hindus perceive the Muslims as different, even more than they did before. The upshot: an 'us-and-them' mentality, ripe for exploitation in the name of vote-bank politics.

So, is this the kind of society I would like my child to grow up in? Where he is told of his religion and caste every single step of the way? Where he finds, like I did when I was 17, that some doors are closed for Hindus who were unfortunate enough to be born into a forward caste? I would hope not...

To leave you with a bitter taste in your mouth, do read Rajeev Srinivasan's excellent piece!

Does India still shine, or have you managed to get your rose-tinted glasses off?

The hardest two years of my life...

It has come to the end.

It was more than two years ago I decided to leave a land which I decided I could never live in - nanny states and regimentation were something that I could never stomach (one of the many reasons why I can't join the army - though some of my friends, them of little faith, have fervently expressed the desire to see me take the physical).

It was about that time that I decided to throw that job at an Indian IT company away (Words cannot express how glad I am to have done that).

It was also about that time that I decided not to think of going to the United States of America - the more I see stuff like this, the gladder I am that I decided to opt out. I can but express my sympathy for the poor American people held in thrall by Cheney and his gang of crypto-fascists.

And it was also about this time that I decided to pack my bags and move home and hearth to Europe. Two years have since passed - during which I've lived in two countries, travelled to six countries (including one where I ended up by accident, spending twenty minutes as an illegal alien), in eight houses, worked on a thesis that went on interminably, wrote pitifully less, struggled with my political and religious conscience, met some people (one in particular) I am glad to have bumped into, and some others (one in particular, again) whom I wish I had never set eyes upon.

I have spent whole days, nights - and even weeks - locked up in basement laboratories struggling with little electronic monsters I detest at times - but to whom, yet, I have linked my lot for the next three years or so. I have spent whole nights partying, redefining the meaning of the word bacchanalian.

I have travelled as much as I could possibly afford. During my sojourns, most people I met were unexceptionably nice - some a little too nice, even! I have also met ignorant and racist cunts - though thankfully, very few of the latter.

I have lived in some great places with people from all over the world, and some places I'd rather forget about (and would, if it were not for those 400 euros those arsewipes still owe me!).

I have learnt to speak a new language, can speak an Indian language better than I ever could when I lived in India (Hindi, if you must know), and can hardly speak an Indian language I once spoke almost as fluently as a native speaker did (Tamil, sadly enough). Surprisingly, I found myself speaking less English in the home of English than I did in India - an irony that surpasses all else!

I have seen stereotypes of people, races, places, and genders I'd built up over the years smashed into teeny weeny bits. For instance,

1. You do not necessarily get along best with people from your own nation. This is particularly true when your country is a mosaic of nations like mine is.

2. This almost contradicts my previous observation, but I've realised that our neighbours to the west are not the evil, bearded, India-hating fanatics that we imagine them to be. They are just like us, to use a cliche, speak the same language (well, kind of - when one's from the South of India), eat the same food, and are just as warm. Oh, and round these here parts, we're all Pakis, innit.

3. Every European does not go about having sex with every person from the opposite (or the same) sex he/she meets.

4. It's okay to be gay. They're no different from the rest of us - I stayed with a gay bloke for a month before discovering that he was (gay, not that he was a bloke).

4. Every Brit is not the cold, evil bloke you see in Indian movies kicking the crap out of a poor Indian. Evil people are evil; irrespective of age, sex, and race. Nick Griffin, meet Pravin Togadia and the Shahi Imam Bukhari.

5. To espy the Union Jack does not mean that your eyes have to necessarily drift down to see the aforementioned Indian having the crap kicked out of him.

6. Being able to speak five languages doesn't make learning the sixth any easier. Especially if the sixth language is German. Ja, nach ein Jahr, kann ich nicht gut und richtiges Deutsch sprechen. :(

And now, I've finished this journey. Too soon, perhaps.

But in either case, you're speaking to Siddhu Warrier, MSc, MSc. YAY!

The author requests uncles and aunties interested in finding a phoren-educated English speaking husband for their daughters with nice bodies and empty heads (they have to be retarded to want to be with the author) to contact mum. The author's mum is requested not to reveal details of her son's financial situation to aforementioned uncles and aunties.

The request for other pretty women (age, sex, caste, religion, and race no bar) to contact the uthor still stands. The author spends half his waking hours waiting for your calls/texts. No, it doesn't look like he'll give up either.

The Tale of Nothing

So today a few of us were on what one would term a lad’s night out. Or if one were to be more precise, what one would term a lad’s night out if one were of the ilk that enjoyed being liberal with the truth. If the truth be told, it was one of those (many) nights where the women shied away from the pleasure of our company. This is, of course, nothing to surprise the discerning reader – who is well aware of the disdain, scorn, and general annoyance that I seem to provoke within the average woman (irrespective of race, creed and caste).

However, this is, indeed, a moot point. The last paragraph was – as experts in the field of literature (and miscellanous other twats) will testify – an attempt to set the mood. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the short tale that I shall now proceed to narrate.

So, as the four of us sat staring at women in shorts (and short skirts, for the sake of completeness) out of the window of a rather nice little pub in Aachen while contemplating the meaning of life (and the inevitability of spending a lifetime of nights out with the lads), one of the chaps decided to regale us with a little story he remembered from a TV show that is little known outside the British Isles; Little Britain.

Wishing to, like me, create an atmosphere, he began rather regally, ‘So there’s this bloke, yeah? He’s about thirty-five, fat, unemployed, and generally a slob…’

‘And he’s here’, interrupted another of our little coterie.

Each of us – whose eyes were fixed on a pair of pretty legs that was walking past our table – swiveled slowly over to the window, where we espied this fat, middle-aged slob (who was quite possibly unemployed) shuffle slowly past the window.

My friend, who obviously had a funny story to tell, was forgotten as we descended into hoots of laughter. After we’d settled down (and I’d got rid of my stomach cramps), my friend – a tenacious sort that could have been an empire builder somewhere in India three generations earlier – decided to go on.

‘So this bloke likes pissing on the walls, yeah?’

And we turn around to the window; wondering if the Good Lord (or His son, in this case) had decided to send another fat slob who liked pissing on walls.

Now, this was highly unlikely; considering this is Germany where people are forbidden to piss on the streets, while they can do something as morally reprehensible as kiss on the same streets where impressionable young Indian minds possibly walk. (Somebody ought to tell the Shiv Sena about this, they would put a stop to it. And then, us Indians who don’t get any either way wouldn’t feel as inclined to do it ourselves, or feel as depressed when our attempts at kissing popsies on the streets turn out to be completely bootless. Jai Hind; Jai Maharashtra!)

But, lo and behold, the same fat slob was facing the wall, apparently staring at the shop window, with both arms in front of him and his legs splayed wide.

Silence reigned for a second, and my friend contemplated heinous ways to either (a) do the fat man who had interrupted him twice in, or (b) do us listeners in. It was as he wondered if Homer had the same problems when he tried to get the natives to listen to whatever it was he’d written (Homer, I mean, not our 21st century raconteur) that the fourth bloke – silent thus far in this narrative – found voice.

‘Bloody ‘ell! He’s standing right in front of my cycle!!’

The guffaws erupted once more. Even the barmaid who had been extremely nice to us since about an hour ago when one of my friends let her take a dekko at his copy of Playboy glared at us.

The bicycle has since been wisely abandoned…

P.S: My friend still seems to find the Welsh hosepipe on the telly far more entertaining than the one that doused the fourth bloke’s bicycle liberally in the here and now.

P.P.S.: I find this story about as interesting as goat’s urine.

P.P.P.S.: Goat’s urine is reputed to get rid of kidney stones.

P.P.P.P.S.: This tale makes no promises of that nature.

Conclusion: This is probably the dullest blog post in the history of mankind; unless of course Al Gore has a blog of his own.

Thoughts of a monk, in a land far, far away...

I haven't forgotten the existence of this blog. It has always remained in a corner of my not-too-well-organised mind. But, the last two months have been unbelievably hectic, as I approach the end of two years in Europe (and hope to, God willing, finish at the end of this month, and graduate at the end of the next).

I have been, since the morning, listening to Tibetan/North east Indian hymns with a strong Buddhist/Hindu influence. This brought long-forgotten memories of a trip, years ago, to Sikkim, a little (former) kingdom hidden below the Kanchenjunga in the far north-east corner of India. My parents took me to this little monastery somewhere near the capital, Gangtok, where we watched mesmerised as shorn monks spun huge, beautiful prayer wheels around.

We got talking to a young, possibly 17 or 18 year old monk. My 7 year old self hung around awestruck in the background. The monk took a look at me, and began to hug me. With tears in his eyes, he told us,

'I have a little brother at home, just like him - the same age. I haven't seen him in years.'

If memory - a fickle mistress prone to altering perceptions of reality at the best of times - serves me right, my parents snapped a photo of him with me.

I didn't think much of it then, and hadn't thought of it afterwards, either. But today, as I listened to Oliver Shanti's eerie, mystic hymns, this memory came flooding back from the depths of my subconscious.

The monk should be about thirty five today. He has probably not seen his younger brother since. Maybe the years of self-imposed exile and isolation have erased the memory of the family he once had, in a small settlement on the border on the Sino-Indian border. Or maybe, just maybe, he still thinks of the little child he left behind when he was wrenched away from his childhood home to pursue a greater call; to attain Moksha. The little child is probably as old as me; he probably still tends to the sheep (or whatever else they tend to in these little villages in an oft-forgotten part of the country).

More importantly to me - and more selfishly, perhaps - I wonder if the young (or not-so-young, now) monk remembers the little seven year old from another corner of that vast landmass we insist on calling a single nation state - the little kid who so reminded him of his own brother. I wonder, if by some eerie, preternatural coincidence, he has thought of me as I sit in front of a computer in the lap of materialism; in a country miles away from his - both literally and metaphorically; listening to songs from his native land, and calling up memories of a young monk I met years ago.

A moot point, however, is if I ever lived in the same country as he. Which, of course, brings me to contemplate the cliche of India being not one, but many countries - of several, nay, infinite realities interposed one over the other! But that is not the point of this little tale; in fact, this little tale, come to think of it, has no point whatsoever.

Thanks for the music, Galiya, it's set me thinking. :)

Sati, Savitri, and the cloak of virginity

The rediff.com message board is the place to visit if one wants to see how moralistic, judgmental, racist, opinionated, boorish and uncivilised many of us Indians are. Most arguments are constructed with scant regard to grammar, spelling, or the decencies of debate. Though the first two are not of paramount importance, one could well do without having to see messages like:

'mulla,,, tumhe toh alla nahi bachapaya ab SRI RAM hi bachayega... '

'I am waiting for abi-ash suhgraat Exclusive Pictures please rediff'

'I saw abhi f*cked aishwarya in the ass. It was vairy nice'

and many more such gems.

Every single discussion board turns into either a North/South or a Hindu/Muslim squabble. But, I guess arguing and hating each other (ref: Russell Peters) is as much in our blood as some good curry! :) But, what really really pisses me off - and what drives me to write this post is what I've been reading inthe message boards while following rediff's (totally over-the-top and tabloidy) coverage of the Abhiwarya (sic) wedding.

Apart from the aforementioned perverts who derive their sexual pleasures from being voyeurs, the message board abounded with plenty of Indian culture vultures who persisted in asking the question of whether Aishwarya was a vergin? Which, I assume, of course, means virgin.

Apart from the biological illogicality of staying celibate till one's 33 (or however old Ms. Rai is), the question is - what business is it of these idiots?

And if this wasn't bad enough, there are plenty of these people who prowl our streets, asking the same question of the average Indian girl. Oh, and if she's not a virgin, the heavens have fallen, Indian culture is not what it used to be, and the woman is such a slut! And of course, all of us have heard of the stereotypical 'easy white woman'.

This kind of behaviour, in my opinion, has nothing to do with a staunch belief in Indian culture or whatever passes for it, and everything to do with voyeurism coupled with deep-seated desperation.

The same kind of voyeurism which requires every bloke to ask other blokes what they've been doing with their girlfriends. Er... alright, I am not entirely free of guilt on this count, but I never said I was perfect. To quote Immortal Technique at this juncture, 'I'm just a man, nigger. Don't follow me, nigger'.

What these people, and the morons who've taken Shilpa Shetty to court, need to take note of, is this. Last I heard, the preamble of the Indian constitution declares India a 'sovereign, secular, democratic republic'. The operative words here are - secular and democratic.

Secularism means that whether you wear saffron robes and spear young couples with your trishuls, or don skull caps and issue fatwas against immorality, you have no right to do so! Your religious views are yours, and yours alone. The government of this country subscribes to no religion, and therefore, the people of this country are free to choose to follow any set (or subset) of religious beliefs without having to face sanction from a bunch of interfering, self-righteous twats who take the name of God in vain.

The word democratic goes even further. It means that every Indian citizen is free to do as he pleases, unless he causes harm or hurt to another. If you are hurt by a couple making love in their apartment, stop looking through the bleedin' window. If your sentiments are shocked by a couple sharing an intimate moment in public, look away. They're not killing each other; they're merely expressing their affection for each other. If you were honest to yourself, you would admit that the only reason why you find it so damn objectionable is because you know no girl in her right mind would give you the time of day.

Consensual sex is the most private of acts, in that it involves nothing that is not one's own (unless one's been pilfering condoms at the chemists', but that's a different story). It doesn't hurt anyone. At worst, it can hurt oneself. Well, it is every adult's choice to subject his body to whatever he or she wishes to. It is not the business of the RSS, VHP, Shiv Sena, or Shahi Imam Syed Bukhari to interfere.

And if this democratic republic of ours does not grant us this most basic of freedoms, we need to urgently reword our constitution.

Until then, I suggest either: a) migrating to a country where you are allowed to impose your beliefs on others, or b) shutting the f*ck up!

Till then, no sex please, we're Indian. We have 1.13 billion people - each one an immaculate conception.

Stereotype Central

Short Post. A musing, more like!

Everybody has probably heard the stereotype of the Germans being efficient, almost to the point of being automatons. Being a politically correct soul, I tried to assure myself that the stereotype was just that, a stereotype.

But I did have second thoughts about that just a few minutes ago, as I stood outside the Informatics building, getting some fresh air after remaining cooped up in a basement lab for far too long. A chap tried to get in through this other door, which was locked.

He then walked in through the door where I was standing, and then tried to get into the section of the building that was accessible through the first door by trying his luck with another door inside the building. This door was locked as well. As he walked out, he gave me the rueful smile that transcends international borders.

All fine till now, yeah?

Then, this bonnie lass in a tracksuit tried to access the first door (aside: Why do women in tracksuits look so edible? Metaphorically, of course, before you start likening me to one of those cannibal chappies in Papua New Guinea). Which, of course, did not work. Then, she moved along and tried the second door, just like the chap before him. As she wrestled unsuccessfully with the second door, a third woman tried the first door, saw the second woman wrestle with the second, and decided, nonetheless, to try her luck herself.

This process continued, with bucketloads of people following their predecessors (whom they could espy) along the same path. I decided to tell the fifteenth person who walked past the door where I stood that the door inside was locked as well. She said, 'Oh, too bad!', and went on to do exactly the same thing!

Now, if this were a bunch of Brits, they would probably have formed an orderly queue outside either of the doors, and waited politely for someone to open the door for them (or they died of exposure to the elements waiting politely).

And if this were a bunch of Indians, we would have first tried break the lock, failing which we would have clambered in through the windows - stopping for a minute to carve our initials (and other profound messages like 'Samir loves Anita') on the window sill.

At this note, I stop my racial stereotyping for the day. I've been an equal opportunities racist, I hope! ;)

The Last King of Kerala

Statutory warning: Unless you’ve watched The Last King of Scotland, you’re not going to make head or tail of this post. I suggest you watch it. Nae, I order you to watch it. I had a dream that says so.

I had just graduated from one of the million substandard engineering colleges that dot the Indian landscape.

We had a celebratory dinner at home.

My father tried to appear to be happy. As we sat down at the table to eat, he spoke solemnly.

‘My son, you have decided to follow a very noble profession chosen by very few… er… make that a few million. Nonetheless, I would like to congratulate you by raising this glass of orange juice to our collective lips. A toast to your pitiful degree in engineering.’

Oh, did I mention it? Mum’s into anti-temperance and all that kind of thing.

He continued, after I had downed the orange juice into my stomach where it soon met the half-litre of vodka that sloshed around in the vicinity (relics of a livelier graduation party with a few mates).

‘You shall soon be joining the thousands of mindless drones who slave away at the software company I work at. I can think of no better profession for you, considering you seem to have no other interests save porn, women and alcohol.’

I balked inside. The software company seemed horrendously unappealing.

I went into my room, settled on my bed, and stared at the Sachin Tendulkar poster on the ceiling. The thought that a chap who had failed his O-levels could make a lot more money than me caused me to seethe within.

I turned the television on, and was greeted by Jade Goody. That did it!! I screamed out loud. I had to make something of my life, just like Arundhati Roy, Shilpa Shetty, Mandira Bedi, and legions of other talentless goofs had.

I had to get away from it all. I had to find myself – even if I knew full well that the search was unlikely to yield any more than a search for free, genuine nude pictures of Aishwarya Rai on google.

I took the globe in hand and spun it around, muttering away, ‘First place my finger stops at, I go there.’, rather like the talentless shmuck I was.

When the globe stopped spinning, my finger rested on the United States of America.

George W. Bush. Condoleeza Rice. Tyrannical visa regulations. The patriot’s act. Tom Cruise. F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

Goddammit, spin the globe around again.

Uganda, this time around.

Africa. Topless tribal women. Erotic fertility rituals.

It took me just two minutes to decide that I would much rather prefer to sleep with topless tribal women than with Condi Rice.

A few days later, I was on a rickety old bus, travelling down one of the few roads in the world that made the Indian highways look like British motorways. I was going to teach little kids in some village in Uganda how to hate Bill Gates and use Ubuntu Linux. After all, didn’t Ubuntu rhyme with Uganda?

I soon met the chap who ran it all – an old Indian uncle, aunty in tow. I went up to yonder uncle, who was running around getting all the snotty-nosed African kids to take their shoes off before they entered the compute room. As every Indian who’s ever taken a computer class knows, wearing footwear into a computer room will cause the computer to choke to death.

‘Hello, uncle. Where are the PCs? I would like to check my email. And how many PCs do we have?’

‘What’s email? Well, we’ve got the BBC Microcomputer (circa 1982). And I notice you’ve brought a motherboard along with you. That makes it two computers… well, kind of.’

The old coot had been up to the age-old baniya practice of hawking all the computers that stupid Europeans sent along after seeing ‘Kinder hilfe’ ads in Koeln Hauptbahnhof at the local black market.

I soon met aunty as well.

I had imagined an Indian version of Stifler’s mom. Beautiful, undersexed, and completely sick of uncle’s persistent flaccidity (Oh did I mention? What with all the AIDS going around in Africa, the last thing they want around there is Viagra!). What I got was a rotund Kantaben with a large bindi plastered over her forehead. Ah well, I’d at least get good khichdi.

Before I could speak, aunty asked me, ‘So, beta, are you married?’

‘Er…well…’

‘Ah, all you youngsters. In my time, we would not let 23 year olds run around the world unmarried. What you need is a good wife to cook for you and look after you.’

Why is it that none of these aunties want to talk of the good stuff about marriage – I mean, the action! It’s not like we Indians don’t do it at all. If you’re not sure, ask the chaps who conduct the decennial census. But before I could object, aunty went on to speak of how her son was working in a good software company in America and was married to a good girl from his own caste – no nonsense with all these goris and kallis.

It was a few days later that Idi Amin came to our village, and my life changed forever.

I was wearing my Kerala: God’s Own Country t-shirt (which contained no information whatsoever of the communists, the labour unions, and the sex crimes in God’s Own Country) when I went to attend Amin’s rally.

The first thing I espied was that the bloke was huge. And that he loved to shout ‘Are you awrite????’ out to the crowd every five minutes. And every five minutes, the crowd answered with a resounding, ‘Shoooooure’.

A few minutes on, I found myself actively screaming ‘Shoooure’ with the crowd. Blending in with the crowd, as it were. Amin then broke out into a kind of tribal jig, which reminded me of the dances in Telugu movies – you know, the kind of thing where the bloke goes into a kind of trance and begins to jiggle his pelvis around like nobody’s business; most people call it exorcism, but Rajkumar and Chiranjeevi call it disco dance.

It was then that I decided to leave. I had seen enough Kannada and Telugu movies to positively detest that kind of thing. As I drove away in my battered landcruiser (everybody who’s anybody in Africa has a 4X4), a military autorickshaw chased me down, and a couple of the local yokels dressed in army fatigues hopped out.

‘Da president, he has a problem with his computer. We need a Computer Scientist. Very urgently.’, said they.

‘I’m a Computer Scientist.’, said I, rather pompously.

‘You come with us.’, they commanded.

Never being one to argue with the business end of an AK-47, I followed them meekly to where the President was, with his laptop on his lap, clapping his ears in pain.

Windows had hung, and Windows Media Player was looping an African song, which sounded suspiciously like the kind of song Rajnikant would love to woo his heroine by.

Idi Amin stared at me and said, ‘You tell me what to do, and I do.’

‘Oh, one of those numbskulls who wouldn’t let tech support do it for them, but wanted to do it for themselves even if they couldn’t power a computer on by themselves.’, I thought to myself.

‘Er..well, Mr. President. Please hold the Ctrl, Alt, and Del keys down.’.

His excellency proceeded to get his fingers in a twist trying to press the ‘C’, ‘O’, ‘N’, ‘T’, ‘R’, ‘O’, and ‘L’ keys on the keyboard down, all at the same time.

I spent five minutes trying to counsel him on how to do it right, at the end of which I lost my patience, grabbed the laptop from Idi Amin, pressed Ctrl+Alt+Del, and killed the Windows Media Player process, screaming, ‘I’ve got to put this thing out of its misery’.

All the flunkies around Amin cocked their carbines. Amin looked menacingly at me, and raised himself to his full height.

‘You touched MY keyboard. You are Indian, aren’t you?’, he said, glowering.

‘Uh…yes, but no, I’m from South India, aye. Kerala.’, and pointed to my Kerala t-shirt.

Amin laughed.

‘Ah, Kerala! Why didn’t you say so? I love Kerala. If I weren’t born a Ugandan, I would have been a Malayalee. There is no other part of the world where people are as horny, and have as funny names as us Ugandans do.’

I smiled; the chap was quite a charmer. I find my name amusing myself, and am unquestionably horny and sex starved.

He went on, ‘I want that t-shirt. I have a son named Baby Lijo Aju Samuel Aby Verghese. He would love it.’

I stared flummoxed. I had doubts about his sanity when he said he wished he was Indian (Anybody who has tried to pick a woman up at a club with a strong Indian accent would agree with me*). The request for the t-shirt convinced me entirely.

He took my confusion to indicate hesitation, and immediately ripped his bemedalled shirt off, and offered it in exchange. Rudyard Kipling wasn’t kidding when he said the barter system still existed in deepest Africa.

He then went on to say, ‘You, you become my personal Computer Scientist. You come here to serve Uganda. You can serve Uganda by protecting the computer of its head of state from viruses unleashed by my political opponents.’

I gaped, open-mouthed. Could I consent to go along with this madman? I looked back to the village. Visions of the aunty marrying me off to some lass who would not meet her husband’s eyes, and would be even worse in bed than me, flashed across my eyes.

I said, ‘Yes…’

I was going to Kampala!

To be continued….

*Yes, I know Russell Peters said that. I give him full credit, but it is a truism, for christ’s sake!