> Discussing lunch plans on Ugadi:
A: Most of the shops are closed, but the Chinese place* is open.
B: Really? What, it's not like they're Chinese inside too...
* a grimy hole-in-the-wall joint outside campus.
> It's disturbing how the original Fast and the Furious is being talked about in some circles now as a minor classic (in anticipation of the latest entry in the series) - more an indication of just how bad the sequels were, perhaps.
> Mildly depressing to find myself accessing the iTunes libraries of other people to only listen to music that I'd already heard - and had in fact given to those people.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
cue Jello Biafra
written in/around March 2007. There were some pictures in the original post that are now seemingly long-lost, so any references to pictures should be excused. And, it's much to long to go through and clean up, so let it come as it is.
There's a part 2 too.
----
A caveat at the outset: exaggerations, misplaced spite, irrelevant detours and non-chronological interjections abound. Very little may end up having to do with the actual tangible sights of the country. And, very few names will be provided.
Aaaand…we’re off. Der Mozzer (dM) in tow.
Departure was a pain. Blue moon is international travel, and am glad. Was looking forward to bonding with D before she left for Australia (on a flight scheduled 15 min before mine), but blocks in the flow of things meant she boarded before I got past security, which meant no proper goodbye. Won’t see her for six months. Tch.
I don’t like flying in general; prefer to travel by land. Most beautiful and abundant starry night though. Well, every night, but this one I witnessed, high in the sky and above the smoke. When slightly high on wine. Red.
Side note: Booze is everywhere in Cambodia. EVERY. WHERE. Restaurants, departmental stores, the road-side, temples…everywhere.
Anyway, I’d forgotten that international flights serve booze. I was being all modest with dM sitting nextwards. Was quite tragic, especially with the different types of beer that were being shuttled across. Indians know how to take advantage of free booze. Observed on the flight.
Immigration is scary. I feel jittery and sweaty when the official looks up blankly to scrutinize each person passing through. I started giggling. Not a good idea, so ducked my head under the counter. Man was not impressed, but retained mask. Slight twitch of the eyebrow before handing back the passport. Recurrent at every airport.
There was this hot guy in a black tee shirt, shorts and pai chappals who was behind me at immigration. Not the hippie herb sort who wear Bob Marley, carry Che and seldom bathe. He was a clean chappie who wore GAP branded shorts. Delectable. Made a mental note to point him out to D. Obviously, that didn’t happen.
Transit at Bangkok. Bangkok airport is wonderfully Spartan in design (though that probably isn’t the word I should be using), and the toilets smell of bubblegum. Most wonderful it was. Best smelling toilet I’d ever paid a visit to. But, once relieved, that smell mixed with whatever is in urine to give of a scent most foul. Quite a letdown. Fidgeted in the lounge (a first. Bangkok Airways provides lounge passes for economy too!) and misled by the man sitting there vis-à-vis the boarding time, which almost led to missing the connection, but made it with a couple of people behind to assuage the guilt at holding up the bus. Landed in Siam Reap in the afternoon. Searing temperature.
Side note: It’s a trade-off for the Indian tourist vis-à-vis whether to escape to a destination that offers a climate cooler and more pleasant than home base, or to visit the discomfort of a place like Cambodia. The positive here is that the other tourists from the temperate regions all dress in mini mini shorts, the men are almost always topless and women in itsy-bitsies. Lots of sweaty eye candy for everyone.
The hotel did have a small pool, but it had been colonized by the French. French women look lovely when wet. It’s the way their hair smoothens out with the water running over it. The bikinis might also have something to do with it, but that isn’t really visible when they are in the water.
Ventured out in the evening to the market, and decided to sit in on a free concert (free being the operative word) advertised as ‘Music by Bach, songs by Beatocello’. Who Beatocello was, we had no clue, but was a pretty snazzy looking auditorium, which happened to be part of a hospital for children run by one Dr. Beat Richner (to paraphrase: I am Beat and this is my cello. Together we are Beatocello. And then he went on about Beatocellino, Beatocellisimo etc.). It was more a fund raising gig than a concert. One song was about the fund’s bank account number. He was a funny guy who reminded me of a Polar Bear stuck in a zoo.
Next morning, went to the Angkor Wat temple to see the sun rise over it. We missed most of it because we were stan ding in the wrong area. Took pictures of people taking pictures, and a couple of hazy ones of the sunrise itself. Hit Angkor Thom later on, which consisted of three (or four..or five) temples that remained in varying states of ruin, grandeur and seriousness. I divided my time between soaking in the place and stalking tourists. Unfortunately, had to delete most of the snaps of the other tourists when I started running out of space in the camera. However, a couple did survive.
Taking pictures was a chore, with dM instructing me to take X spot or Y bas-relief so that she could send it to her minions. After a point, I was egging the battery to die so that I could actually see the place (and people), rather than having to be at the end of many an ‘Isn’tthatnicetakeapicture’. Not to say that I didn't want any pictures at all, but to attack a monument camera-first seems wrong. She was also slightly irked that I was taking pictures of rubbish strewn around the place, or of someone's spit etc.
Went to a cultural dance in the evening, which was an hour of slow movement and dM c hatting up a family from Chennai who were sitting next to us. They were from T. Nagar. I must be alone in thinking that if I were that family, I wouldn’t want to be disturbed by general chatter about where children are studying etc. But, people from every country seem to gravitate towards each other (like the Iyengars below). Had my first taste of Guiness at this place, and dM took three fuzzy pictures of the process (only evidence that places me in Cambodia or this holiday).
Detour: The signs in and around Cambodia and Thailand were quite fascinating, even if utterly banal. The signs in Thailand were always most courteous, and also to the point of borderline apologetic when asking for a donation.
An interesting one (that I didn't take a picture of) was inside the Angkor Wat complex, which had around 8 symbols of things to do and not do. While the usual no smoking, no littering etc. were there, at the bottom was a white tee shirt encased in a circle with a blue background. Most European tourists roam shirtless, and so 'twas a warning to be clothed. Heh. Another sign in the royal palace (Phnom Penh) forbid sleeveless shirts and skirts/shorts that expose anything above the knee.
Ironic: A 'Please Respect the natural environment' sign nailed to a tree.
Anyway, the next day we visited the main temples of Angkor Wat, which are three creepy looking structures that were probably the inspiration for all the set design of Mortal Kombat. Or Shredder’s arm guard (probably not exclusive to him). It has a silent grandeur that isn’t moved by the chatter of the crowd.
The climb up to the chamber where the idols are kept is extremely steep, and I was unsettled during my ascen t by a German woman who kept shouting back to a companion below her to ‘luk dhown!’ It was finger and toe tingling stuff, and as I scampered up the final few steps, a thought about the statistics of the number of people who get injured there flitted through my head. dM had even more difficulty, she being afflicted with vertigo. But we both made it, and hopefully spent enough time up there to make it worth the effort. Up here was where I found the spit.
Back down, the four walls that surround it are absolutely infested with bas-reliefs that depict the Ramayana, Mahabharata and a couple of other Hindu tales. It contains enough for a fundamentalist to shit orange.
Side note: The Tuk-tuk, an auto-rickshaw type contraption that consists of a carriage hooked to a scooter is the cheapest mode of motorised personal transport in Cambodia (though the word in Bangkok refers to their iteration of the auto-rickshaws seen in India), and is a perfectly sensible and reasonably enjoyable vehicle to move around. But, I loathe the name, which, though probably derived from the sound of the scooter exhaust, seems destined solely to elicit squeals of delight from fat, middle-aged women who say the word and go into spasms of delight and want to pose in one so that they can show it to the eyes back home.
The next day was spent with the 2 Iyengars (which they themselves proclaimed to be their defining characteristic) of an advanced age we had run into earlier, thanks to dM who had coordinated with them for a variety of reasons (mostly pity, I think). One of them (anointed R) was writing a book on Angkor Wat, which, from what I gathered was to be based on a three day trip and ample cogging from literature provided by the Archaeological Survey. The other (M) liked to travel, say ‘madam’, prod a lot and correct the stringy pronunciation of the people there (who say ‘Hellooooo’ and ‘Pineappulllll’ with their voice trailing off towards the end). Both were also slowly killing the guide with questions and proclaiming the supremacy of Sanskrit over Khmer (local language derived from Sanskrit). R’s other hobbies included delivering unsolicited sermons to random tourists and hopping over restrictive fencing into prohibited zones. He also reminded me of Leslie Nielsen.
Ultimately, they weren’t able to actually visit the sites that were scheduled for the day, because of their weak legs and hilly terrain that was required to be negotiated. The first was a place considered sacred because of many lingas that were blessing a river (and quite worn out i n the run). Getting there was as much as the actual place. A half hour trek through a woody hill that strongly reminded me of Rashomon to get to the site where the lingas lay. The other two sites were small temples that had some exquisite carving (and where R did his rope hopping).
Side note: dM does not recommend Cambodia as a honeymoon destination, as seeing the place is too exhausting, leaving little energy for other things.
The next day, it was found that what we thought was the 1000 lingas wasn’t really the place, and had to go to another place to see yet more worn out (and decidedly less impressive) lingas immersed in the river side, with some river bed carving too. I think the people might have been doodling on route to some other destination. Next to this place was a waterfall that was a popular destination for tourists foreign and local, with an overpowering smell of foam, fish and coconuts. Also here was the ‘Reclining Buddha’, which is carved on an extremely large rock and has a little structure constructed at the top with stairs leading up to view it.One very intriguing sight was an old and pious looking woman who had her picture taken with a whole bundle of notes splayed across the base of the Buddha, and once done, stuffed all the notes back into her purse.
Side note: Only one dog in Cambodia was friendly towards me. No, I don’t repel animals.
From there, ploughed on to the floating village, a community of fishermen who live on the lake (egads..the name..the name) full-time, with floating school, two floating churches, floating basketball court and floating souvenir shop. I felt it was just wrong to take close-ups of the houses, especially the interiors, but most thought otherwise. Ah well.
In Siem Reap market, my burning question is about this picture. Been trying to find out who the artist is. Signed Luttrell, but copyrighted to one G.B. Lutrell (with only one t), google seems to draw a blank. Spotted at a restaurant. Nice way to live for the Italian proprietor, who married a Cambodian, hangs around all day while his staff does the cooking, and lives upstairs in a little bedroom.
Phnom Penh has a pizzeria by the name of ‘Happy Herbs’. Speciality being the happy pizza, or sometimes the extra happy pizza that turns off the light for a day or two. Disadvantage of travelling with dM. Hotel had a grumpy French owner by the name of Alexis who was also instantly ravishable, and was in the style of either a rehab clinic or a Columbian drug money mansion.
Over to Thailand, where by far the most enjoyable experience in Bangkok is the night market, where dM went hunting for a fake Rado watch (for a friend of a friend). Fake everything is over there, and with smiling Thais who make it extremely difficult to haggle with in spite of having full knowledge of a haemorrhaging wallet. Picked up seasons one and two of Grey’s Anatomy and season one of House M.D., and also Love.
Side note: When a mother wants to see a sex show, the son MUST refuse. It is a test. It is a test. It is a test.
Lingering image of an obese, large, half-naked, heavily tattooed and drunk American playing air-guitar and doing the sort of walk that KISS do on-stage.
In Bangkok airport, I saw a girl reading the novelisation of this movie.
Ugh.
There's a part 2 too.
----
A caveat at the outset: exaggerations, misplaced spite, irrelevant detours and non-chronological interjections abound. Very little may end up having to do with the actual tangible sights of the country. And, very few names will be provided.
Aaaand…we’re off. Der Mozzer (dM) in tow.
Departure was a pain. Blue moon is international travel, and am glad. Was looking forward to bonding with D before she left for Australia (on a flight scheduled 15 min before mine), but blocks in the flow of things meant she boarded before I got past security, which meant no proper goodbye. Won’t see her for six months. Tch.
I don’t like flying in general; prefer to travel by land. Most beautiful and abundant starry night though. Well, every night, but this one I witnessed, high in the sky and above the smoke. When slightly high on wine. Red.
Side note: Booze is everywhere in Cambodia. EVERY. WHERE. Restaurants, departmental stores, the road-side, temples…everywhere.
Anyway, I’d forgotten that international flights serve booze. I was being all modest with dM sitting nextwards. Was quite tragic, especially with the different types of beer that were being shuttled across. Indians know how to take advantage of free booze. Observed on the flight.
Immigration is scary. I feel jittery and sweaty when the official looks up blankly to scrutinize each person passing through. I started giggling. Not a good idea, so ducked my head under the counter. Man was not impressed, but retained mask. Slight twitch of the eyebrow before handing back the passport. Recurrent at every airport.
There was this hot guy in a black tee shirt, shorts and pai chappals who was behind me at immigration. Not the hippie herb sort who wear Bob Marley, carry Che and seldom bathe. He was a clean chappie who wore GAP branded shorts. Delectable. Made a mental note to point him out to D. Obviously, that didn’t happen.
Transit at Bangkok. Bangkok airport is wonderfully Spartan in design (though that probably isn’t the word I should be using), and the toilets smell of bubblegum. Most wonderful it was. Best smelling toilet I’d ever paid a visit to. But, once relieved, that smell mixed with whatever is in urine to give of a scent most foul. Quite a letdown. Fidgeted in the lounge (a first. Bangkok Airways provides lounge passes for economy too!) and misled by the man sitting there vis-à-vis the boarding time, which almost led to missing the connection, but made it with a couple of people behind to assuage the guilt at holding up the bus. Landed in Siam Reap in the afternoon. Searing temperature.
Side note: It’s a trade-off for the Indian tourist vis-à-vis whether to escape to a destination that offers a climate cooler and more pleasant than home base, or to visit the discomfort of a place like Cambodia. The positive here is that the other tourists from the temperate regions all dress in mini mini shorts, the men are almost always topless and women in itsy-bitsies. Lots of sweaty eye candy for everyone.
The hotel did have a small pool, but it had been colonized by the French. French women look lovely when wet. It’s the way their hair smoothens out with the water running over it. The bikinis might also have something to do with it, but that isn’t really visible when they are in the water.
Ventured out in the evening to the market, and decided to sit in on a free concert (free being the operative word) advertised as ‘Music by Bach, songs by Beatocello’. Who Beatocello was, we had no clue, but was a pretty snazzy looking auditorium, which happened to be part of a hospital for children run by one Dr. Beat Richner (to paraphrase: I am Beat and this is my cello. Together we are Beatocello. And then he went on about Beatocellino, Beatocellisimo etc.). It was more a fund raising gig than a concert. One song was about the fund’s bank account number. He was a funny guy who reminded me of a Polar Bear stuck in a zoo.
Next morning, went to the Angkor Wat temple to see the sun rise over it. We missed most of it because we were stan ding in the wrong area. Took pictures of people taking pictures, and a couple of hazy ones of the sunrise itself. Hit Angkor Thom later on, which consisted of three (or four..or five) temples that remained in varying states of ruin, grandeur and seriousness. I divided my time between soaking in the place and stalking tourists. Unfortunately, had to delete most of the snaps of the other tourists when I started running out of space in the camera. However, a couple did survive.
Taking pictures was a chore, with dM instructing me to take X spot or Y bas-relief so that she could send it to her minions. After a point, I was egging the battery to die so that I could actually see the place (and people), rather than having to be at the end of many an ‘Isn’tthatnicetakeapicture’. Not to say that I didn't want any pictures at all, but to attack a monument camera-first seems wrong. She was also slightly irked that I was taking pictures of rubbish strewn around the place, or of someone's spit etc.
Went to a cultural dance in the evening, which was an hour of slow movement and dM c hatting up a family from Chennai who were sitting next to us. They were from T. Nagar. I must be alone in thinking that if I were that family, I wouldn’t want to be disturbed by general chatter about where children are studying etc. But, people from every country seem to gravitate towards each other (like the Iyengars below). Had my first taste of Guiness at this place, and dM took three fuzzy pictures of the process (only evidence that places me in Cambodia or this holiday).
Detour: The signs in and around Cambodia and Thailand were quite fascinating, even if utterly banal. The signs in Thailand were always most courteous, and also to the point of borderline apologetic when asking for a donation.
An interesting one (that I didn't take a picture of) was inside the Angkor Wat complex, which had around 8 symbols of things to do and not do. While the usual no smoking, no littering etc. were there, at the bottom was a white tee shirt encased in a circle with a blue background. Most European tourists roam shirtless, and so 'twas a warning to be clothed. Heh. Another sign in the royal palace (Phnom Penh) forbid sleeveless shirts and skirts/shorts that expose anything above the knee.
Ironic: A 'Please Respect the natural environment' sign nailed to a tree.
Anyway, the next day we visited the main temples of Angkor Wat, which are three creepy looking structures that were probably the inspiration for all the set design of Mortal Kombat. Or Shredder’s arm guard (probably not exclusive to him). It has a silent grandeur that isn’t moved by the chatter of the crowd.
The climb up to the chamber where the idols are kept is extremely steep, and I was unsettled during my ascen t by a German woman who kept shouting back to a companion below her to ‘luk dhown!’ It was finger and toe tingling stuff, and as I scampered up the final few steps, a thought about the statistics of the number of people who get injured there flitted through my head. dM had even more difficulty, she being afflicted with vertigo. But we both made it, and hopefully spent enough time up there to make it worth the effort. Up here was where I found the spit.
Back down, the four walls that surround it are absolutely infested with bas-reliefs that depict the Ramayana, Mahabharata and a couple of other Hindu tales. It contains enough for a fundamentalist to shit orange.
Side note: The Tuk-tuk, an auto-rickshaw type contraption that consists of a carriage hooked to a scooter is the cheapest mode of motorised personal transport in Cambodia (though the word in Bangkok refers to their iteration of the auto-rickshaws seen in India), and is a perfectly sensible and reasonably enjoyable vehicle to move around. But, I loathe the name, which, though probably derived from the sound of the scooter exhaust, seems destined solely to elicit squeals of delight from fat, middle-aged women who say the word and go into spasms of delight and want to pose in one so that they can show it to the eyes back home.
The next day was spent with the 2 Iyengars (which they themselves proclaimed to be their defining characteristic) of an advanced age we had run into earlier, thanks to dM who had coordinated with them for a variety of reasons (mostly pity, I think). One of them (anointed R) was writing a book on Angkor Wat, which, from what I gathered was to be based on a three day trip and ample cogging from literature provided by the Archaeological Survey. The other (M) liked to travel, say ‘madam’, prod a lot and correct the stringy pronunciation of the people there (who say ‘Hellooooo’ and ‘Pineappulllll’ with their voice trailing off towards the end). Both were also slowly killing the guide with questions and proclaiming the supremacy of Sanskrit over Khmer (local language derived from Sanskrit). R’s other hobbies included delivering unsolicited sermons to random tourists and hopping over restrictive fencing into prohibited zones. He also reminded me of Leslie Nielsen.
Ultimately, they weren’t able to actually visit the sites that were scheduled for the day, because of their weak legs and hilly terrain that was required to be negotiated. The first was a place considered sacred because of many lingas that were blessing a river (and quite worn out i n the run). Getting there was as much as the actual place. A half hour trek through a woody hill that strongly reminded me of Rashomon to get to the site where the lingas lay. The other two sites were small temples that had some exquisite carving (and where R did his rope hopping).
Side note: dM does not recommend Cambodia as a honeymoon destination, as seeing the place is too exhausting, leaving little energy for other things.
The next day, it was found that what we thought was the 1000 lingas wasn’t really the place, and had to go to another place to see yet more worn out (and decidedly less impressive) lingas immersed in the river side, with some river bed carving too. I think the people might have been doodling on route to some other destination. Next to this place was a waterfall that was a popular destination for tourists foreign and local, with an overpowering smell of foam, fish and coconuts. Also here was the ‘Reclining Buddha’, which is carved on an extremely large rock and has a little structure constructed at the top with stairs leading up to view it.One very intriguing sight was an old and pious looking woman who had her picture taken with a whole bundle of notes splayed across the base of the Buddha, and once done, stuffed all the notes back into her purse.
Side note: Only one dog in Cambodia was friendly towards me. No, I don’t repel animals.
From there, ploughed on to the floating village, a community of fishermen who live on the lake (egads..the name..the name) full-time, with floating school, two floating churches, floating basketball court and floating souvenir shop. I felt it was just wrong to take close-ups of the houses, especially the interiors, but most thought otherwise. Ah well.
In Siem Reap market, my burning question is about this picture. Been trying to find out who the artist is. Signed Luttrell, but copyrighted to one G.B. Lutrell (with only one t), google seems to draw a blank. Spotted at a restaurant. Nice way to live for the Italian proprietor, who married a Cambodian, hangs around all day while his staff does the cooking, and lives upstairs in a little bedroom.
Phnom Penh has a pizzeria by the name of ‘Happy Herbs’. Speciality being the happy pizza, or sometimes the extra happy pizza that turns off the light for a day or two. Disadvantage of travelling with dM. Hotel had a grumpy French owner by the name of Alexis who was also instantly ravishable, and was in the style of either a rehab clinic or a Columbian drug money mansion.
Over to Thailand, where by far the most enjoyable experience in Bangkok is the night market, where dM went hunting for a fake Rado watch (for a friend of a friend). Fake everything is over there, and with smiling Thais who make it extremely difficult to haggle with in spite of having full knowledge of a haemorrhaging wallet. Picked up seasons one and two of Grey’s Anatomy and season one of House M.D., and also Love.
Side note: When a mother wants to see a sex show, the son MUST refuse. It is a test. It is a test. It is a test.
Lingering image of an obese, large, half-naked, heavily tattooed and drunk American playing air-guitar and doing the sort of walk that KISS do on-stage.
In Bangkok airport, I saw a girl reading the novelisation of this movie.
Ugh.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
day trip
hadn't actually read through this before posting - realize belatedly how badly edited/formatted/written it is. plead clemency in lieu of fixing it.
--
The Taj Express was to leave for Agra at 715AM. Blathering unintelligibly in Hindi to the rickshaw driver who had fleeced me about bad things happening to him, I ran for the train at 650 in the morning wearing a tee-shirt and shorts. Ok, I’ve never been to Delhi before.
Once on the train, I stow my lone and quite puny looking backpack amongst the longer, thicker and definitely better endowed packs of the foreign tourists, they already having formed a gang to boss around my little pack, pushing it to the end of the line, leaving it cold and exposed.
Rescuing it from low temperature and exposure was this kindly looking gent, pushing 60 with a coat wrapped around one arm. Very harmless looking. People do touch other people’s packs for the purpose of stowing their own packs in the liberated room. But, this man didn’t have a pack. Ok. And this man was now walking away with my pack. Ok.
It was cold in the morning and I was snuggled into my seat, but behaviour of this sort was totally unacceptable. I should have been at his throat, calling him saale and chooth, the two Hindi words that I’d picked up from films. Instead, I politely prodding his ribs, asking him to return my bag. Please. After approximately the third intonation and seventh prod, the man slickly let go and kept walking. It really was a smooth and practiced release of the bag. He must have been at this for a long time.
So, back in seat and bag in tow, I had the feeling that this was going to be a bad day. Didn’t get better when on the train, the man sitting next to me spilt tea on my arm. Hot tea too. I should have definitely stayed in bed.
Once out in Agra, I was immediately accosted by a ‘guide’, one who guaranteed to show me around for Rs. 300, a massive pay cut from his usual fee of Rs. 475. Paying attention to him was my first mistake. To get to Fathepur Sikri, I had to buy a tour that used a bus. But no, this nice man on his auto insisted that was impossible. Believing him in my cold irritation was my second mistake. He very graciously proclaimed that he’d accept money only at the end of the day, after safely depositing me back at the train station. So guides make mistakes too.
Agra is a city where every individual looks to help out the economy. For example, if I ask someone to transport me to place X, I’d also have to beat away ten requests to buy shoes, leather bags, fabric and cane wheelchairs. Do they extract a commission from every sale made on a referral? Probably not. But their concern for the economy is touching.
So, once in the auto owned by Apu, though piloted by his brother to whom I wasn’t properly introduced, we set off for the Taj. Throughout the short journey, I silently berated myself for knowingly and willingly getting conned by these people.
En route, brother of Apu fills me in on the con artists who’d be working the Taj. Do not hire a guide. Do not buy anything. Marble is not cheap. Marble is not yellow. Mobile phones not allowed. You can surrender the phone to the cloakroom, or. Or you can give it to me. I shall keep it safe. For you.
Politely smiling, I stepped out towards the Taj, phone safely in pocket. A little winding road led up to the heavily guarded entrance. After removing my SIM card from the phone, I turned it in at the cloakroom, a place that inspired no sense of security.
As predicted, a guide latched onto me, offering his services for a mere Rs. 50, against his normal charge of Rs. 650. Even as my pleas for clemency fell on deaf ears, the surly looking soldier (later corrected to guard) picked me out for a random search, something that saved me from the guide. Scrutinizing my passport, he wasn’t convinced that I was suitable to enter the Taj. Well, until he looked at religion, gave the space and approving tap and grunted ‘Hindu’. Like that makes a difference at this place.
Once inside, I eavesdropped on the guides and rejoiced that I’d saved myself fifty bucks. Impressive monologues, but culled directly from plaques placed all over the place. I’ve mugged stuff for English recitation too.
The place is smashing, not drowned by hype, but personally, I found the people there more interesting, and took quite a few pictures of people taking pictures. Also pictures of people not taking pictures, pictures of engravings on benches and scribblings on the marble, children playing, couples, parrots, documentary filmmakers etc. And of the Taj too. I haven’t worn a watch in at least four years, and my source of time had been the phone.
Having surrendered that, I either looked to the sky or stole furtive glances at the not so naked wrists of other tourists. After what I’d estimated to be an hour and a half of soaking in the place, I left. Not because I wanted to, but because brother of Apu had told me to. In retrospect, what would he have done had I been late? Not much.
Still, once out, after collecting my phone from the room, I looked around. All paths were the same. Which way to Rome? Fuck. Picking one, I started, only to be blocked by hawkers and rickshaw-wallahs offering a ride to Agra fort. Breaking into a jog to avoid them, I broke free. And then I realized, the brother of Apu was nowhere to be found. With good reason, since this wasn’t the place where I’d left him.
Now, I’m guessing most people would have turned back. Even I would have turned back on a different day. But I was in no mood to encounter the hawks again, and so continued in the wrong direction, hoping to find a turn that’d lead me back to Brother. The turn never materialized. Instead, I walked to Agra fort.From inside Agra Fort, one can see the Taj. Drummed into my head just exactly how far I was from BoA. Spent the best part of four hours in there to avoid a (in all probability) pissed BoA and to kill time. While contemplating the immediate future, and watching overzealous photographers directing grumpy tourists to cup their hands so as to look like they were holding the Taj, Daeddy called.
After concocting lies about how wonderful the place was to the D, I decided to shadow this one tourist around the place. Alone and quite ravishing, it was fun being ten steps behind, in a stalking sort of way. He didn’t seem to mind. Didn’t take a picture of him though, out of respect. Yes, I am extremely aware that I make terrible first impressions.
Once I felt enough time had elapsed, I exited the fort to search for a place to eat. Carefully avoiding eye contact, I made my way to the dusty Hotel Akbar, dining house of kings. Only two tables were laid out, one occupied by an extremely noisy family (something of an epidemic in the North it appears). Too late to back out, and too hungry as well. Only a cutlet on the train and the liquid tea patch till 1600 hrs. I didn’t mind, but self imposed starvation usually leads to a terrible day-after. Something I had to avoid. Then again, I wasn’t so sure about that after sinking into their food.
Fed and watered, I needed a plan. No, fuck that. I just need to get out of here. But the train is only at 7. Let’s walk around then. Aligning myself in a direction that I hoped would lead me to the train station, I took off. Walking is wonderful in that it allows taking in the little things that would have been missed when speeding by in a bus or an auto. The gaudy fashion not included.
Pretty sure that I was lost, and with a steady drizzle slowly picking up, I waved down a rickety looking rickshaw. After turning down his looped offer to take me shopping, we started on our way to the station. This guy had been taking me in the wrong direction in the hope that I’d go shopping. Maybe the shop keepers offer transport too.
The man’s pedalling was the huffing-puffing-but-getting-nowhere sort. Excruciatingly bumpy and slow, at least the contraption had a hood that kept out the revving rain, only washing the mud off the hood onto the jacket draped over my knees. Like the heart monitor of an unattended patient going into cardiac arrest, the driver displayed fits of life before finally dying and declaring that his vehicle had sustained a puncture.
He helpfully flagged down another rickshaw and transferred me onto it. One without a hood. In the rain. And one with no discernible seat. And a wild-eyed driver with a penchant for tailing other rickshaws, occasionally nudging them and offering very hairy moments when braking. But, he did get me to the station in one piece, something I’m thankful for. Of course, he too offered to take me shopping.
At the station with over an hour to kill, I hid myself, fearful of having to encounter Apu or Brother of Apu. Yes, it was my fault. I was prepared to offer him cash too. Not 300, but 200. 100 for taking me to one out of a promised three sights, and an additional 100 for mental trauma that may have occurred. He never did come. Well, he might have, but once the train pulled in, I cemented myself onto my seat and looked at nobody until it pulled out of the station. I still think about him.
The three hour journey, extended to four, was made bearable by this Texan family who used phrases like ‘whipped yo ass’ and ‘who the chaymp’ while playing gin. And by an exporter of shoes who extolled his achievements over the past twenty years to the man sitting next to him, employing an accent that seemed to have an Australian tinge.
Back in Delhi two hours late, my only thought was to get into bed. I didn’t care that the auto driver was fleecing me. Again. After accepting the first offer tendered, and watching as his auto was extracted with Tetris like accuracy, we set off.
The auto sputtered and gagged. And stopped.
--
Written sometime in early 2006, salvaged around 15 minutes ago from an archival website.
--
The Taj Express was to leave for Agra at 715AM. Blathering unintelligibly in Hindi to the rickshaw driver who had fleeced me about bad things happening to him, I ran for the train at 650 in the morning wearing a tee-shirt and shorts. Ok, I’ve never been to Delhi before.
Once on the train, I stow my lone and quite puny looking backpack amongst the longer, thicker and definitely better endowed packs of the foreign tourists, they already having formed a gang to boss around my little pack, pushing it to the end of the line, leaving it cold and exposed.
Rescuing it from low temperature and exposure was this kindly looking gent, pushing 60 with a coat wrapped around one arm. Very harmless looking. People do touch other people’s packs for the purpose of stowing their own packs in the liberated room. But, this man didn’t have a pack. Ok. And this man was now walking away with my pack. Ok.
It was cold in the morning and I was snuggled into my seat, but behaviour of this sort was totally unacceptable. I should have been at his throat, calling him saale and chooth, the two Hindi words that I’d picked up from films. Instead, I politely prodding his ribs, asking him to return my bag. Please. After approximately the third intonation and seventh prod, the man slickly let go and kept walking. It really was a smooth and practiced release of the bag. He must have been at this for a long time.
So, back in seat and bag in tow, I had the feeling that this was going to be a bad day. Didn’t get better when on the train, the man sitting next to me spilt tea on my arm. Hot tea too. I should have definitely stayed in bed.
Once out in Agra, I was immediately accosted by a ‘guide’, one who guaranteed to show me around for Rs. 300, a massive pay cut from his usual fee of Rs. 475. Paying attention to him was my first mistake. To get to Fathepur Sikri, I had to buy a tour that used a bus. But no, this nice man on his auto insisted that was impossible. Believing him in my cold irritation was my second mistake. He very graciously proclaimed that he’d accept money only at the end of the day, after safely depositing me back at the train station. So guides make mistakes too.
Agra is a city where every individual looks to help out the economy. For example, if I ask someone to transport me to place X, I’d also have to beat away ten requests to buy shoes, leather bags, fabric and cane wheelchairs. Do they extract a commission from every sale made on a referral? Probably not. But their concern for the economy is touching.
So, once in the auto owned by Apu, though piloted by his brother to whom I wasn’t properly introduced, we set off for the Taj. Throughout the short journey, I silently berated myself for knowingly and willingly getting conned by these people.
En route, brother of Apu fills me in on the con artists who’d be working the Taj. Do not hire a guide. Do not buy anything. Marble is not cheap. Marble is not yellow. Mobile phones not allowed. You can surrender the phone to the cloakroom, or. Or you can give it to me. I shall keep it safe. For you.
Politely smiling, I stepped out towards the Taj, phone safely in pocket. A little winding road led up to the heavily guarded entrance. After removing my SIM card from the phone, I turned it in at the cloakroom, a place that inspired no sense of security.
As predicted, a guide latched onto me, offering his services for a mere Rs. 50, against his normal charge of Rs. 650. Even as my pleas for clemency fell on deaf ears, the surly looking soldier (later corrected to guard) picked me out for a random search, something that saved me from the guide. Scrutinizing my passport, he wasn’t convinced that I was suitable to enter the Taj. Well, until he looked at religion, gave the space and approving tap and grunted ‘Hindu’. Like that makes a difference at this place.
Once inside, I eavesdropped on the guides and rejoiced that I’d saved myself fifty bucks. Impressive monologues, but culled directly from plaques placed all over the place. I’ve mugged stuff for English recitation too.
The place is smashing, not drowned by hype, but personally, I found the people there more interesting, and took quite a few pictures of people taking pictures. Also pictures of people not taking pictures, pictures of engravings on benches and scribblings on the marble, children playing, couples, parrots, documentary filmmakers etc. And of the Taj too. I haven’t worn a watch in at least four years, and my source of time had been the phone.
Having surrendered that, I either looked to the sky or stole furtive glances at the not so naked wrists of other tourists. After what I’d estimated to be an hour and a half of soaking in the place, I left. Not because I wanted to, but because brother of Apu had told me to. In retrospect, what would he have done had I been late? Not much.
Still, once out, after collecting my phone from the room, I looked around. All paths were the same. Which way to Rome? Fuck. Picking one, I started, only to be blocked by hawkers and rickshaw-wallahs offering a ride to Agra fort. Breaking into a jog to avoid them, I broke free. And then I realized, the brother of Apu was nowhere to be found. With good reason, since this wasn’t the place where I’d left him.
Now, I’m guessing most people would have turned back. Even I would have turned back on a different day. But I was in no mood to encounter the hawks again, and so continued in the wrong direction, hoping to find a turn that’d lead me back to Brother. The turn never materialized. Instead, I walked to Agra fort.From inside Agra Fort, one can see the Taj. Drummed into my head just exactly how far I was from BoA. Spent the best part of four hours in there to avoid a (in all probability) pissed BoA and to kill time. While contemplating the immediate future, and watching overzealous photographers directing grumpy tourists to cup their hands so as to look like they were holding the Taj, Daeddy called.
After concocting lies about how wonderful the place was to the D, I decided to shadow this one tourist around the place. Alone and quite ravishing, it was fun being ten steps behind, in a stalking sort of way. He didn’t seem to mind. Didn’t take a picture of him though, out of respect. Yes, I am extremely aware that I make terrible first impressions.
Once I felt enough time had elapsed, I exited the fort to search for a place to eat. Carefully avoiding eye contact, I made my way to the dusty Hotel Akbar, dining house of kings. Only two tables were laid out, one occupied by an extremely noisy family (something of an epidemic in the North it appears). Too late to back out, and too hungry as well. Only a cutlet on the train and the liquid tea patch till 1600 hrs. I didn’t mind, but self imposed starvation usually leads to a terrible day-after. Something I had to avoid. Then again, I wasn’t so sure about that after sinking into their food.
Fed and watered, I needed a plan. No, fuck that. I just need to get out of here. But the train is only at 7. Let’s walk around then. Aligning myself in a direction that I hoped would lead me to the train station, I took off. Walking is wonderful in that it allows taking in the little things that would have been missed when speeding by in a bus or an auto. The gaudy fashion not included.
Pretty sure that I was lost, and with a steady drizzle slowly picking up, I waved down a rickety looking rickshaw. After turning down his looped offer to take me shopping, we started on our way to the station. This guy had been taking me in the wrong direction in the hope that I’d go shopping. Maybe the shop keepers offer transport too.
The man’s pedalling was the huffing-puffing-but-getting-nowhere sort. Excruciatingly bumpy and slow, at least the contraption had a hood that kept out the revving rain, only washing the mud off the hood onto the jacket draped over my knees. Like the heart monitor of an unattended patient going into cardiac arrest, the driver displayed fits of life before finally dying and declaring that his vehicle had sustained a puncture.
He helpfully flagged down another rickshaw and transferred me onto it. One without a hood. In the rain. And one with no discernible seat. And a wild-eyed driver with a penchant for tailing other rickshaws, occasionally nudging them and offering very hairy moments when braking. But, he did get me to the station in one piece, something I’m thankful for. Of course, he too offered to take me shopping.
At the station with over an hour to kill, I hid myself, fearful of having to encounter Apu or Brother of Apu. Yes, it was my fault. I was prepared to offer him cash too. Not 300, but 200. 100 for taking me to one out of a promised three sights, and an additional 100 for mental trauma that may have occurred. He never did come. Well, he might have, but once the train pulled in, I cemented myself onto my seat and looked at nobody until it pulled out of the station. I still think about him.
The three hour journey, extended to four, was made bearable by this Texan family who used phrases like ‘whipped yo ass’ and ‘who the chaymp’ while playing gin. And by an exporter of shoes who extolled his achievements over the past twenty years to the man sitting next to him, employing an accent that seemed to have an Australian tinge.
Back in Delhi two hours late, my only thought was to get into bed. I didn’t care that the auto driver was fleecing me. Again. After accepting the first offer tendered, and watching as his auto was extracted with Tetris like accuracy, we set off.
The auto sputtered and gagged. And stopped.
--
Written sometime in early 2006, salvaged around 15 minutes ago from an archival website.
Friday, March 6, 2009
not much of a bellow
I met him quite by accident.
I never do this sort of thing. Really. But I have my limits, and sometimes the exceptions do crop up. It was him, after all. Serendipitous, and the chance of a lifetime.
But, how?
I stalked him for a little bit. He flitted in and out of little shops, politely forcing himself upon the nonplussed shopkeepers. Polite like a funeral director though, not like a doctor.
Predictably, he was hardly natty. Not grimy, but he wore his scars on his sleeve. Deference to his white skin may have kept them at bay, but they still regarded him with suspicion. No surprise, given each ominous sentence he spoke dripped with doom. I wondered if he was trying to provoke them, the few who did understand his accented English.
Surprisingly, or perhaps not, he was enquiring about the cows. I might think it foolish to ask a modern shopkeeper about the common cow on the street, but maybe he was infused with a touch of oriental nostalgia that forced him to believe that in a country such this, the world is much more closely wound than in the West. He does seem old-fashioned that way, when not gleefully anticipating an apocalypse.
Quite abruptly, he turned full half-circle (or is it just a half-circle) and stared me square. He cocked his head to one side (his right, if I’m not mistaken, but I get confused. It could’ve been my right), but didn’t seem perturbed. He was rather forthcoming, I might add, and very accommodating too.
‘You’ve been following me,’ he stated. ‘Do you know who I am?’ I nodded. He too, in acknowledgment. ‘What do you know about flatulence? Cow flatulence, in particular?’ he asked, even before I could implore that I wasn’t an autograph seeker who salivated over matinee-idols.
It was obvious that he knew that I knew who he was, and consequently all the quirks he embodied (which was slightly presumptuous, I should say, though spot on), and so saw it pointless to dally on formalities, instead plunging right in.
This may also be a test of… character, if you could call it that.
I may have seemed wary as I pondered over it, for he eyed me with a grizzled glint, but I could also see a hint of a twinkle.
Now what?
‘Well, I believe that the sound it makes is actually governed a lot by the amount of hair around the opening. It’s better stifled if there is hair, acting as a buffer of sorts. A clean shaven arse-crack, on the other hand, offers little resistance, causing a most exquisite pop! to be heard even when the person attempts to muffle it.’
‘Is that so?’ he asked, not so much argumentatively but encouragingly.
‘Er. Well, I think so. I’d assume the same applies for cows. That’s… about it.’
He scratched his stubble and nodded in acquiescence, and offered his hand to me.
‘Nice to meet you.’
It smelled vaugely of dung.
This could yet turn out to be an interesting week...
I never do this sort of thing. Really. But I have my limits, and sometimes the exceptions do crop up. It was him, after all. Serendipitous, and the chance of a lifetime.
But, how?
I stalked him for a little bit. He flitted in and out of little shops, politely forcing himself upon the nonplussed shopkeepers. Polite like a funeral director though, not like a doctor.
Predictably, he was hardly natty. Not grimy, but he wore his scars on his sleeve. Deference to his white skin may have kept them at bay, but they still regarded him with suspicion. No surprise, given each ominous sentence he spoke dripped with doom. I wondered if he was trying to provoke them, the few who did understand his accented English.
Surprisingly, or perhaps not, he was enquiring about the cows. I might think it foolish to ask a modern shopkeeper about the common cow on the street, but maybe he was infused with a touch of oriental nostalgia that forced him to believe that in a country such this, the world is much more closely wound than in the West. He does seem old-fashioned that way, when not gleefully anticipating an apocalypse.
Quite abruptly, he turned full half-circle (or is it just a half-circle) and stared me square. He cocked his head to one side (his right, if I’m not mistaken, but I get confused. It could’ve been my right), but didn’t seem perturbed. He was rather forthcoming, I might add, and very accommodating too.
‘You’ve been following me,’ he stated. ‘Do you know who I am?’ I nodded. He too, in acknowledgment. ‘What do you know about flatulence? Cow flatulence, in particular?’ he asked, even before I could implore that I wasn’t an autograph seeker who salivated over matinee-idols.
It was obvious that he knew that I knew who he was, and consequently all the quirks he embodied (which was slightly presumptuous, I should say, though spot on), and so saw it pointless to dally on formalities, instead plunging right in.
This may also be a test of… character, if you could call it that.
I may have seemed wary as I pondered over it, for he eyed me with a grizzled glint, but I could also see a hint of a twinkle.
Now what?
‘Well, I believe that the sound it makes is actually governed a lot by the amount of hair around the opening. It’s better stifled if there is hair, acting as a buffer of sorts. A clean shaven arse-crack, on the other hand, offers little resistance, causing a most exquisite pop! to be heard even when the person attempts to muffle it.’
‘Is that so?’ he asked, not so much argumentatively but encouragingly.
‘Er. Well, I think so. I’d assume the same applies for cows. That’s… about it.’
He scratched his stubble and nodded in acquiescence, and offered his hand to me.
‘Nice to meet you.’
It smelled vaugely of dung.
This could yet turn out to be an interesting week...
Sunday, March 1, 2009
nights
The table has a rug covering it, allowing it to be used as an ironing space. Piled books teeter on one end, bending three-quarters up into the wall, steady itself. Adapters, chargers, headphones and other miscellaneous peripherals are scattered around the iron.
I am under this table, and I don’t know why.
It has a ledge, actually, quarter way up two of its legs, on which boxes of old discs are stacked. The rug forms a fringe in my field of vision, and, leaning on the ledge with my legs out, I watch television, though I’m not sure when it was switched on. The sound is muted, but films these days tend to be subtitled when beamed, it would seem. Or, so it seems.
It’s a scene full of rapid cut close-ups of lips. Heavy stuff, and with the lips being chapped, it seemed a touch avant-garde, too, but that may have been the effect of the lack of sound.
She seems so nice. She seems so sweet. She’s pretty too, even if her elegance is slightly pop-eyed. And she’s smiling. She’s being nice to the man she barely knows, I think. The close-ups may be misleading, but the phantom conversation is couched by tender dimples and twinkling eyes. Why not…
He doesn’t seem like the Mysterious Stranger either.
This man is less Humphrey Bogart and more Edward G. Robinson. He can’t have the main role here, he can’t – he’s a supporting player through and through, with a tight waist coat sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of trench coats. He’s pudgy and losing his hair while the Bogie-clone dips his pocket comb in whiskey and slicks back his carefully tended tresses.
Oh, I know this story. It’s a story for the girl. She’s nice, he falls, she’s oblivious. He’s a wounded man, of course, crusty but not steely, proud but not hard. He can’t fathom why people are nice to him and can’t bear it either, so the few that are will be ground down till alienation, and then subsequently the unattainable is loved completely. It has the trappings of a tragedy, but not some sanitized psychosis through the eyes of Ron Howard. This is Lodge Kerrigan stuff, but better still. Heartfelt pathos, immensely measurable gravitas, and…
I used to be depressed in fits and starts. It’d manifest itself as a tightening of the jaw and felt like nodular growth – I could trace bumps in my jugular when it clamped up. Sociability would evaporate. I haven’t been to the theatre in years, and only mingle with morning show masturbators at the cinema. But when I did, I was always envious, heatedly so, of Musicals, because when the song and dance started, they stopped being people.
I was dizzy, I think. It made me wonder about why supposedly whatever keeps a body balanced is in the ear. I picture a Frankenstein laboratory with the Creator moulding the human prototype on a table (with lightning and gigantic Tesla coil buzzing in the background), very satisfied, but then stands it erect and realizes that the damn thing doesn’t hold, so hurriedly stuffs the balancing bits into the ear.
I think I remember now.
I am under this table, and I don’t know why.
It has a ledge, actually, quarter way up two of its legs, on which boxes of old discs are stacked. The rug forms a fringe in my field of vision, and, leaning on the ledge with my legs out, I watch television, though I’m not sure when it was switched on. The sound is muted, but films these days tend to be subtitled when beamed, it would seem. Or, so it seems.
It’s a scene full of rapid cut close-ups of lips. Heavy stuff, and with the lips being chapped, it seemed a touch avant-garde, too, but that may have been the effect of the lack of sound.
She seems so nice. She seems so sweet. She’s pretty too, even if her elegance is slightly pop-eyed. And she’s smiling. She’s being nice to the man she barely knows, I think. The close-ups may be misleading, but the phantom conversation is couched by tender dimples and twinkling eyes. Why not…
He doesn’t seem like the Mysterious Stranger either.
This man is less Humphrey Bogart and more Edward G. Robinson. He can’t have the main role here, he can’t – he’s a supporting player through and through, with a tight waist coat sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of trench coats. He’s pudgy and losing his hair while the Bogie-clone dips his pocket comb in whiskey and slicks back his carefully tended tresses.
Oh, I know this story. It’s a story for the girl. She’s nice, he falls, she’s oblivious. He’s a wounded man, of course, crusty but not steely, proud but not hard. He can’t fathom why people are nice to him and can’t bear it either, so the few that are will be ground down till alienation, and then subsequently the unattainable is loved completely. It has the trappings of a tragedy, but not some sanitized psychosis through the eyes of Ron Howard. This is Lodge Kerrigan stuff, but better still. Heartfelt pathos, immensely measurable gravitas, and…
I used to be depressed in fits and starts. It’d manifest itself as a tightening of the jaw and felt like nodular growth – I could trace bumps in my jugular when it clamped up. Sociability would evaporate. I haven’t been to the theatre in years, and only mingle with morning show masturbators at the cinema. But when I did, I was always envious, heatedly so, of Musicals, because when the song and dance started, they stopped being people.
I was dizzy, I think. It made me wonder about why supposedly whatever keeps a body balanced is in the ear. I picture a Frankenstein laboratory with the Creator moulding the human prototype on a table (with lightning and gigantic Tesla coil buzzing in the background), very satisfied, but then stands it erect and realizes that the damn thing doesn’t hold, so hurriedly stuffs the balancing bits into the ear.
I think I remember now.
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