More absurd than miserable

A number of you threw brickbats at me for sullying the high-art of ballet. To all of you, I virtually moon you.

Speaking of absurdities that pass for art, I also watched some time earlier a movie - nay, a musical - by the name of Les Miserables, whose pronunciation remains a mystery to me to this day.

No doubt this was a masterpiece by Victor Hugo, and I am certain it makes for gripping prose. But the minute it transcended into the musical genre, it went Twilight Zone.

Sure the acting was great, and the gaunt Hugh Jackman laid the male audience's insecurities to rest - at least initially, when he was gaunt. Russell Crowe played himself, i.e. a douchebag asshole. Anne Hathaway did some convincing numbers. 

But why must they carry to absurd lengths the setting of everything to a tune? Yes, there are some nice songs - reasonable lyrics set to good music. But why, oh why, must even the quotidian banalities be sung? Can't Cosette simply call Jean "papa" instead of singing even those two syllables? I'm sure even Beethoven took breaks from composing.

But wait, anticipating the next round of brickbats, I do grant that I am being too harsh here. On second thought, I do realize the potential for immense daily pleasure this approach to life can offer.

Scene one: a ho-hum dinner in a middle-class 4-room HDB apartment. Imagine the following exchange, both lines sung to "So long, farewell" from the Sound of Music:

Ah Boy: Mama! Mama! I want to go and play-ay!

Mother: Sit down, shut up and eat your bah kut teh-eh!!

Father: ***** (fits nicely into "Cuckoo")

Scene two: flight from Singapore to India (any city)

Drunk passenger: AIR-hostess! AIR-hostess! (sung to the opening bars of Bicycle Race by the Queen)

(entire flight thumps on its collective tray)

Drunk passenger again: I want to have vis-KEE-so-da, I want to have it when I like! (sung to the mellow second line of the same song)

And when you see me next, please call me "Caustic Yoda" (sung to the tune of "Call me maybe"). Don't be shy, numbers welcome.

The Buffalo and The Mozzarella

Once upon a time, when my joints did not creak, I was on a long expedition to visit the spiritual capital of the world and discover my Inner Lama. So after schlepping through Sikkim and Bhutan, I flew into New Delhi (Motto: "Sharp Elbows") and made my way into the western recesses of Rajasthan, ending up in Jaisalmer.

Even before the train stopped, we were swarmed by hotel touts and I signed up for one, along with an Italian - let's call him Paolo. We were to find out much, much later that what we saved on the cheap hotel fare we more than lost in the inflated "camel safari" fare, but that is another story to be archived under "stupidity".

Anyway, Paolo was a voluble, highly emotional person who I am sure had animated conversations with his hands behind the closed doors of his room. We did end up signing for that safari. It gave many memorable...er, memories.

The camel driver was a tall, dark and wiry Muslim in some kind of a feudal subjugation to the hotel owner / operator, also a Muslim, embodied in the form of a handsome young 20-something who boasted of how many women he'd done, including the wife of a guest whom he'd banged on the roof as her husband slept in their room below. Charming. The driver had a 13-year old kid, who looked about 9 - small, frail, but cheerful and conversationally competent in about a dozen European languages. They made INR 1,500 a month working for this ratty hotel; the kid was not in school and I doubt my entreaties to the father to send him to one had any effect; and they literally lived in a different place and time - the driver's question to me was not where I came from or whatever, but whether I was Muslim or Rajput - not even "Muslim or Hindu". That was how narrow his world view was, warm and friendly as he was, and why I referred to his and the hotel owners' religion - those identities and allegiances clearly still mattered a lot in these parts and ages.

But things were improving. The kid watched our cell phones the whole journey and eventually asked us for one - "I don't have to wait all day at the hotel to know if we get customers, I can call in or be called", he said - and Paolo, tears brimming, took out his SIM card and gave his Nokia to him at the end of the trip. Nevertheless, when the hotel owner got wind of this as we were all chatting in the room that passed for reception, the kid rather cowered as he hung about the doorway, as was his place no doubt.  I was not comfortable how he would survive this turn of events, a simple attempt to becoming more empowered, no doubt a huge transgression in the eyes of a typical feudal bastard. I only then got a sense for what people bemoan as the "feudalism" of Pakistan, just a 100 kilometers or so to the west. The hotel guy even asked for the phone, and turning it over and examining the battered, crappy Nokia closely - to him it might as well have been a hammer and sickle rolled into one.

Anyway, we did get on the camel and trudged for random periods of time for 2-3 days, settling down for meals - invariably, roti and some veggies, as we had wisely chosen not to request any meat - random naps, and slept on stacks of twigs or branches in the desert. I don't recall how or where we secured shade during the days. The driver and son constantly tried to entice us into getting a chicken for the next meal and at one point did successfully entice us to get beer, brought lukewarm in a gunny sack with ice and straw. Now you may ask how did they manage that - the fact is, I suspect we were hardly ever very far from the roads and it was unlikely that I'd ever have been lost and rescued like a story from the "Drama in real life" sections from Reader's Digest (Motto: "They still read us in India"). In fact I suspect we were always within earshot, figuratively speaking, of villages ready to supply overpriced meat and beer to idiot tourists. Cleaning up after meals consisted of rubbing everything down with sand. But his hand-flattened dry rotis were some of the best I'd ever had, as were the simple veggies he prepared.

The kid delighted me with what I thought was a folk song passed down over the centuries, only to realize after returning to the real world that it was a movie song: "Kajra re".

On one of these days we experienced a first-class sandstorm - the sort of event that one read about as a child in a magazine like "Tinkle". The skies darkened (actually I don't recall, but it is fun to make up memories) and the dust picked up. As expected, we dismounted and found some bushes, and the camels were made to sit, with the humans sheltering behind a double protective layer: camel, then bush. It wasn't too bad actually, but visibility did drop to a foot at best. It lasted maybe 20 minutes, and then we could see the sky, each other, the camel etc. 

One fine afternoon, we chanced upon a mini-oasis of sort - a pond, really - with some tropical trees nearby - and I discovered the skull of some antler-bearing animal. I used my swiss knife to saw off the single, 10-inch long, curved horn, helped by the kid. I still have it on my mantle. Halfway through this process a very gruff, mustachioed, turbaned figure turned up and tried to grab the Swiss knife. I think only the fact that it was with the kid, who stubbornly refused to hand it in, saved it from appropriation. The people here were gruff, not in the sharp-elbowed Punjabi ways of Delhi, but a different, hardier, earthier, simpler way of a different time and age from a terrain wracked by war since time immemorial - the races that have crisscrossed this part of India may include the Scythians, the Sveta Hunas (Abdalis / Hephthalites), Kushanas, and down to the Arabs, Persians, Turco-Mongols all the way to the Ghaznavids, Ghourids and finally the cretins we celebrate as the great Mughals. 

It was either in that spot or at another one that we came across what looked like a large patch of mud. The driver let the camels in, I think, and cheerily told us we should have a dip too - carefully not taking one himself. The excitable Paolo jumped in and immediately sank in waist-level mud. He seemed not in the least put off, and like a clever buffalo that knows something you don't on a scorching day, wallowed about for a long while and emerged in his skivvies covered in brown mud. He looked like something from a bad science fiction movie - by which I mean Lord of the Rings, with those evil creatures created from the slime of the earth by the head of the evil people, whatever he is called. Sauron or something. If they let me, I would slay the annoying Hobbits in one fell swoop, is what I say.

Sidekick: Mr Frodo (glug)! I can't leave your side, I don't care if I drown (glug, glug)!!

Frodo: (silent, with his retarded, stoned, glassy-eyed look with those hideously large and scary eyeballs surrounded by an even larger expanse of white, which for some reason chicks dig)

Me: Bang! Bang! Die motherfuckers!! 

Gaandu the Wizard: Thank god you did it: that bastard Peter Jackson wouldn't let me. Fucking annoying midget cretins, constantly klutzing around and getting us into trouble. 

But I digress. Paolo the Italian, professional bouncer at the trendiest London clubs, enjoyed his wallow. I am not sure how I stood being around him for the rest of that day, or journey. Possibly by staying upwind. But he had a good heart, god bless him.

He was charitable to random strangers, apart from the cellphone donating act that I already mentioned. Every little street urchin would make him want to stop, talk, give money. Like most hippie-types, he worse grungy linen, slapped a tikka on his forehead every chance he could and spoke with awe of India and her spirituality - it sounds cliche, I know, but he was a genuine soul. Walking the fort of Jaisalmer together, we ended up at some lady's home based on her advertising palmistry services. She began reading him and his eyes almost popped out. 

Palmist: You wanted to adopt a child

Paolo: Oh my god-a, yes!!!! How did-a you know? (turns to me) She is right-a!!! How did-a she know?!!

Palmist (to me): You don't want to get read? You're too afraid to find out the future aren't you?

Me: (silent)

Palmist: Here, see this book of seemingly random alphabets? This is my code to write down my take for the day, so that no one else can find out. 

No doubt the Indian tax service was quivering.

I walked many a time past the Rajasthan government-run bhang stall.

For the record, I never imbibed. But I think Mr Frodo did.

Paolo was to later find me on Facebook, but sadly I do not patronize that site any longer.

Food for thought

Recently, I came across this piece in the New York Times. Nothing here is special or new, especially post the era of Michael Pollan and his books. Anyway here is the Opinionator piece:

A Food Manifesto For The Future

Reading that, I was led to think of how simpler and healthier life was not too long ago, even in something as simple as food. 

Thirty years ago, my grandma would dispatch me daily to the store. I carried a cloth bag (no plastic bags to throw out), picked up fruits and vegetables that were (probably) trucked in daily from the region. They were indeed puny compared to the specimens found today at any supermarket, but I imagine they were so because the soil that grew them was not taxed and injected with chemicals. (Lets not get into GMO). 

We carried glass bottles which the shops filled with unrefined, flavorful oil, the cold-pressed kind that has since become something premium, rather than de rigeur. Meat eaters ate the stuff once or twice a week, and it was a precious commodity. Even processed foods like baked goods were locally made and one hopes free of the additives and stabilizers needed to sustain the packaged product of today that the best and the brightest market (those not taking their completely justified pound of flesh in the financial services industry, that is). For heaven's sake, the booze was fresh, natural and organic, tapped as toddy everyday from our very own coconut trees. 

Today the country I left suffers more cardiac diseases, diabetes and hypertension than almost anywhere. Processed, packaged food is de rigeur. Natural oils like coconut, sesame and mustard that shaped the genes for generations were swiftly replaced by well marketed, "golden", refined bleached and deodorized oils. One-horse villages sell imported leeks. Cookery programs showcase meat - the aspirational pinnacle of quotidian "nutrition" being marketed to 1.2 billion. I am no Luddite, but is this progress?

I learned my lesson the hard way. I today do not eat meat; cook more; have almost banned packaged food and beverages from my life; use natural oils; graze the once-reviled salad-bar like an ungulate; and... am paying more to do all this, just rewinding to what should always have been status quo. 

In summary, we are idiots. We deserve everything because we sold our health, ultimately, willingly. I'll leave you to figure out - to whom? And really, for what?

Rhymes with hobo

Spoiler alert - but probably redundant

Recently I went to watch the movie that has apparently taken India by storm. The movie is called Enthiran, which is Tamil for Machine. Hence its alternate title Robot, except it is pronounced in the sophisticated French way and rhymes with "Hobo". I will therefore annoy you by referring to "Robo" for the rest of this article.

The movie starts with a hi-tech lab where the hero is putting Asimov to shame. Unfortunately, the opening scene featured a retard - who would proceed to provide an annoying "comedy track" with a fellow retard - in a shapeless pair of trousers and un-tucked, short-sleeved shirt that looked like someone had vomited Bolognaise sauce and melted Velveeta through a pasta maker on to the fabric. Even in the age of Robo your Indian family and friends, apparently, will still torture you with garish color schemes without the fall-back excuse of color-blindness. This is why I regift all items of clothing I have the misfortune of receiving as gifts from the Peeps.

The male lead warmed my cockles. At 61, he proved that men can always get to prance and carouse with women half their age. Sorry, ladies, it's unfair but so it is. Tough luck. This being a movie about a Robo, it featured the inevitable break dance bit with the "Robo" movements etc. My enthusiasm for the future sexagenarian me dipping my wick in some hot piece of ass was somewhat diminished by my fear that the hero - the star, nay, The Megastar - might at any moment keel over from hip dysplasia (for added entertainment, click on the "Canine" Wiki link). Let's just say that the actor's dance steps are more "jerky" than "smooth". Perhaps he was just slyly mocking the abysmally forgettable songs to which he was, er, "dancing".

The heroine was a sight to behold. Gratuitous shots of her in tight pants and bending over after a sprint (but in perfect makeup) were much appreciated, though the straggler fanatic-morons in the empty cinema reserved their occasional clap or catcall for the hero's utterance of signature hand gestures. I desperately wanted to catch them as they stepped out to the restroom - the movie was 3 hours long - to explain that the actors could not actually hear them.  Anyway, the heroine also could not dance, and thank god the Ms Universe finale did not involve a test in this area (she won it a decade ago).

The coup de grace of the film was that not that the Robo was created and eventually lightning-bolted into a touch of human-ness, with icky feelings etc. It was the amazing ways in which, after plugging into a power outlet for 5 minutes, the Robo could practically fly to the moon and back. It will be some time before the laws of thermodynamics can catch up with the new-found expertise in CGI graphics in the land of Indian cinema, where logic is for fools. 

Various stereotypes and retrograde, anachronistic subplots were at work. The Robo saves a bathing girl from a raging fire, and she promptly commits suicide from the shame of her nakedness - what fucking stone age are the producers living in? Indian women are bonking like rabbits and the only shame is that I am not the counterparty - or is it counterbunny? Why can't an Indian movie or soap just once show a groom demanding dowry being handed over to the police; a tortured woman walking out with a divorce in one hand and a strapping young hunk in the other; a widow or a divorcee remarrying; a man having a peg without getting theatrically drunk; or any such socially progressive idea?

An atrocious supporting cast and storyline round off this dismal movie best vaccinated against to prevent infection. This has been a public service post.

Notes from an old country

About another old country.

As I look at my notebook I realize there are things I did not write about from my Armenia trip. As with the Jews, the Armenians have had a very long presence in India, with Chennai and Calcutta still featuring an Armenian Street each (as does Singapore). From the guide, I learned that the first constitution of Armenia, as well as the first Armenian newspaper were printed in.... India. Calcutta I believe. There were a few pieces of ornate wood furniture from India as well. Apparently in the 18th century, there were records, or at least reports or rumors, of Indians in the Lake Van region.

Even further in history, Armenians have a myth about the twins Gisane and Demetrio, supposedly from India - predating Christianity (introduced 4th century AD), way back in the pagan days. It is said that even some of the doors at Echmiadzin, the mother cathedral for Armenian Orthodoxy, were made in India.

How interesting it would be to have a time machine.

Faking it

Ha! You thought I was going to write an article full of sexual innuendo and double entendres. I was, but between you and me, there is this pesky lawsuit... just a matter of weeks, now.

Anyway, I have been mind-fucked by Indian TV. Specifically, I have to admit that the commercials on TV are in a class of their own. There is this excellent one for LMN, which, given the very Indian nature of the product, is almost certainly produced domestically. Then there are the series of ads for Polo, including this one and this one, featuring animals and creativity. Best not to watch if you are vegan. Then there is this terrific one, a testament to the Indian spirit to make fun of itself - once in a while. There is another great one with a dancing grandma and her blackmailing grandson (thanks "Oana"). Anyway, in this first part of the article, I salute the creative ad men and women, and perhaps marketing professionals in general. But they are still evil! 

Unfortunately, while many ads in India abound with creativity, with and lots of tongue-in-cheek humor, almost anything with India's faux aristocracy - Bollywood actors and cricketers - sucks. I reserve comment, but here are a few: a biscuit ad, a cable TV ad (I think) and this annoying jewelry ad. And walking around a Food Bazaar - for research purposes, during work hours - I found a new toothpaste called Sach! It has famous cricketer Sachin Tendulkar's face plastered all over it. This asshole has been playing cricket since before I knew how the penis worked. A billion + people and one man takes up 9% of its cricketing capacity for 20+ years. He has a gazillion dollars and is vending toothpaste for 20 rupees a pop. And ad men are prostituting themselves for anything with a "star" in it. 

Mumbai, shlumbai

Driving around Mumbai last week, I had to play guide to a colleague less familiar with India than I am. In the land of the blind...

Inevitably eyebrows were raised passing by Dharavi, the largest slum in the world. We both agreed it was a great improvement over Rio in terms of guns and violence but not so on terms of sanitation and infrastructure. Here, I point out that, Indian people were entirely wrong to get worked up over Slumdog Millionaire denigrating India. Well, they should have been angry, but for the right reason - Freida Pinto may be eminently cute, but is an awful dancer. No wonder she didn't make it in Bollywood. This is also the only reason I did not ask for her hand in marriage.

On the recommendation of our rotund front desk sweetheart - "I'm Goan" - we went to Goa Portuguesa, a kitschy restaurant with good food and shamelessly self-promoting owners whose faces were plastered all over the menu. I invoked the cultural exception clause.

We finished up and went to the Blue Frog. The establishment is a recording studio, has an eponymous label and is also a restaurant / lounge / club.

We were immediately taken by the decor, quite impressively swanky. It did justice to the converted textile mill ambience. Pod-like tables were arranged, in descending levels from the groovy bar. We had one right in front of the stage. A woman who apparently was trying to mate with plants - talk about a tree hugger - was walking around with large flowers in her hair and a sadly anemic hair attachment. We were expectantly awaiting "Indian flamenco", the event of the night.

After an hour's delay, the event got underway. An invisible female backstage announced it in a titillating French accent. The walking bouquet turned out to be the performer, joined by a Afro-wearing tabla dude, a male and a female vocalist, a string instrument dude and one on the synthesizer.Apparently, not only were they late starting, but they had forgotten to rehearse. The dancer, grinning ear to ear a la Julia Roberts, would start clapping, only to have the tabla dude not pick up the rhythm. The smile would disappear, a frustrated look replacing it and she would shoot unabashedly annoyed daggers at him.

Eventually they got their shit together. She started doing, what to me seemed amateurish, flamenco. She was wearing a long clingy brown dress, with said flowers etc for accesories. Eventually she finished and came back to do an Indian dance, the Kathak, after a change of outfit; a Sufi-type dance attired in what my companion thought was a Bavarian outfit; and finished in yoga pants doing a very strange yoga-pose piece. I was reminded that I hate dance as a highbrow art.

Intermittently, she took over the mike, doing the indian vocal doo-wop (takadikafukabuka)at 72 rpm with the kind of self-enjoying wide-
mouthed, toothy, grinny expression of pleasure that I forgave her for the bizarre and amateurish performance that evening. Imagine the smile seen on the faces of synchronized swimmers, and then imagine it beging genuine because she actually probably believed she was doing something terrific and was probably joyful for that. Bless her soul. Meanwhile, my companion was rather taken by the wild swaying and facial expressions of the tabla dude.

Presently, an, ahem, acquaintance joined. I was happy I already had company, for I could leave them to converse as I exercised my brain deciphering anatomy during the yoga number. (To myself: "You can do *that*? That can touch *that*? But she told me last week that could be done!" etc.). Soon the first companion left us, and as I accompanied her to the car, we were accosted by an effeminate prick  lounging outside who tried to air-kiss both of us and tried to ask for our opinions on the performance. He also wanted our emails to put us on their mailing list. Fat chance.

Soon another couple joined, and I bade farewell to the second companion as well, worrying if it was a good idea to take a cab at midnight. It turns out Mumbai is quite a safe place that way. Or maybe it isn't, since I have not heard back from her on my "I'm just checking on you" email. It's always better to blame the bogeyman than work on my charisma. Hurray.

The couple and I stepped out for a breath of "fresh air". Some drunk asshole tried to make small talk at our table and we shushed him away. Thankfully he was not a gangster packing heat. Some things are universal, eh? Eventually the staff all but kicked us out. I returned to my hotel, having sampled just a bit of the city I was born in.

I can't wait to go back.

Sent from my iPhone

In search of meaning

Here I am sitting at a bar and it suddenly hits me - I have to think really hard just where exactly I am. And this, *before* I have had a sip,  let along getting wasted, on booze, as I did a couple of weeks ago, an event written into the annals of the Black Hole Chronicles.

No, here I am at the hotel bar and I had, for several seconds, no idea where I was. The barkeeper was speaking Hindi with his staff, so it can't be the South of India. Slowly I traced my weekend travel to Mumbai, where I am.

You'd think I'm gonna rail about booze. No, I'm gonna rail about the fun getting squeezed right out of life with all this business travel. Every hotel is the same, an every fake Irish pub samer. And the soul wrenching monotony and solitude.

I gotta get my riding breeches, find my goarherdess and go back to Mongolia. Sigh.

Sent from my iPhone

Mission: Pantyhose

The two Asian giants are fighting. I of course mean "Tiger" China and "Elephant" India. Who comes up with these monikers anyway?

Some time ago, India started banning things like Chinese toys  (lead), dairy products (melamine), mobile phones (too easy for terrorists to use and discard) and sundry other stuff (too cheap for local producers to stomach). Just a day or two ago, the Indian government banned telecom products from China, which frankly I am shocked other governments have not done. Do not get me wrong - I have nothing against the Chinese people as a nation or as a race. But the Party is evil, and it is ridiculous to believe they will not pursue any means for their strategic objectives. For heaven's sake they hacked Google and refuse to tell imprisoned foreign executives what constitutes "state secrets", the ones said executives allegedly stole.

Sheesh.

Anyway, the Indian government would be well advised to set its sights on another massive social disturbance waiting to explode (mixing many metaphors here).  Apparently, there is a global surfeit of long underwear in a variety of colors, largely in white, but also in black and other neutral colors, which has found its way into the Indian woman's wardrobe. That's right, instead of tailored or pret-a-porter "shalwars" - the pants underneath the long tunics, or "kameez", that the women prefer to wear [or maybe I am getting the two mixed up] - women, of all ages and body types, seem to have taken to wearing something that looks like pantyhose, only slightly thicker, appearing somewhat like tight long johns. And surely I cannot be accused of stereotyping when I assume these hideous abominations (the clothes, not the women) were made in China.

This *must* stop. It is the single most disturbing visual and every night it promises to strangle me in my dreams. Oh lord, save me. Bring back the decency in dressing. Fast cars, fast food, fast clothes, what next?

Poly roly

"Parel" is a neighborhood in Mumbai. All said and done, not a bad neighborhood. The price-gouging taxiwallah drove us past a reasonably clean ad uncrowded "middle class" neighborhood. Lots of drug stores. Lots. I recently heard business acquaintance describe Asia as "over-medicated". Needless to say, there is tons of money going into healthcare in erstwhile healthy Asia.

Seedy hotels with names like Aroma, Shantidoot and Sharda. On balance, a fresh coat of plaster and paint could get at least this part of Mumbai looking good. And maybe just getting rid of the old model taxi cabs; and the drivers and pedestrians while at it; and somehow magically disappear the mounds of garbage. Who am I kidding.

Soon I spy the ubiquitous two-wheeler families. A woman pressed close to her man, hand not around him, but apparently on his crotch. Gives a new meaning to auto-eroticism. Hehe. But, it turned out she had her hand firmly on his thigh, just above the bulge.... Of his wallet. She's got her priorities right. There was another family where a little kid was so tightly sandwiched between mom and dad I almost missed him/her, were it not for a hand snaking out.

Another threesome, a chubby tubby family I have to say, had a rather old - say 10 year old - kid between mom and dad, fast asleep and leaning backward, much to my alarm and consternation. Furiously I was trying to figure out where exactly the center of gravity lay and how unstable an equilibrium it all was. No such thoughts concerned his mom, sanguine, and seen a few minutes later with him awake, commisserating and indulging the just-awoken. For all I know toothbrush and oatmeal followed suit.

Then the little kid with his backpack, hugging daddy tightly, both climbing a flyover at low gear, but fast enough to have the hair flying backward. That little kid was the most satisfied person in Mumbai last night. A smile of happiness and adoration for his cool-riding dad. I almost feel sorry for when he grows up. For his dad, that is.

Finally, home to cousins and curry. I found out on the way back that the onward taxi had only charged me 50% more than the meter charge. Chump change. Pun intended.

Sent from my iPhone

Home is where the...

Ah, Mumbai meri jaan. 'Tis wonderful to sweat into... er step into this city again. The motherland. Full of warm, smiling faces, familiar, at once embracing and making you feel at home. Perish the thought of strangerhood amidst such visages.

I am talking of course about the movie poster with Megan Fox's face on it.

Dances with Death

You may have missed this recent piece of news, but I am here to not only show it to you but also serve it with a side of "rant".

First notice that the news is from a website called "Overdrive". Newsflash: unless you have serious penis-envy, not everything "over" is good. For example, if you have buckteeth, it is called an "overbite". If you don't have enough money, you are "overdrawn".  Large vehicles today are called "gas guzzlers", not "chick magnets" - well, not any longer. If you can't have enough sex, you are "oversexed". Waittaminute, that last one don't sound too bad.

(Apologies, it took 6 seconds to type that out, and as a man, I must think of sex once every 6 seconds. I think this is Newton's zeroth law or the Golden Rule or something. I almost remembered, but there, that was another 6 seconds)

Back to the point: I find the article rather ironic. For recently I took a drive through National Highway 45 (or NH-45, unofficially known as the "Death Waltz"), a premier roadway in India. I am still shivering from the experience, but on the bright side, it is safe to say that my plaque levels have not reached the point where extreme panic leads to instant death by cardiac arrest.

First, imagine a 4-lane dual-carriageway with a divider, entry/exit lamps ramps, fast, smooth cars - say Jaguars, lights, no speed limits, betel-nut girls - i.e. all the ingredients for a fine motoring experience. Now refine this image to one-lane in each direction, no divider, pitch darkness at night, no barriers to prevent human or animal pedestrians and, saddest of all, no betel-nut girls. Then imagine a speed-limit that could dynamically change, like the weather, only much more unpredictable - for example, now you are braking to zero to avoid the barnyard animal on the road; a little later, say 10 kph behind a file of lazy cyclists, in school uniform, riding 3-abreast; now you are chugging along at 20 kph, looking at the lungi-clad bunch of 30 men piled on the tractor ahead; now, a little faster behind the auto-rickshaw; now, the road is all clear and you are flooring it, but sadly your puny car has a mechanical limitation of not being capable of going pas 80 kph. Then zooms past you a huge car called "Sumo" or something at 120 kph.

All of a sudden, you don't think "Overdrive" is such a bad word.

But as a very responsible person - why do you make that face? I saw you roll your eyes. Do you need eye drops? I have some Optrex here. Hmmm, I am not convinced you had something in your eye.

Here we go again - being a very responsible person I ride shotgun, keeping my eyes peeled through the entire journey so that we would not be in/up/against the wrong end of, say, an elephant - I am not making up seeing one on the highway. (Not that I would like the wrong end of anything or anybody - or would I?). This means not only not being able to sleep during a noisy, tiring journey when all the coolant in the world cannot make the air-conditioning good enough; but it also means finding your heart in your throat roughly once every six seconds. That's right - the very second meant to fantasize about sex. Goddammit!

The driver always drives close to the center-line, just a tad into the other side to keep an eye out for an opportunity to overtake, say, the dog trotting along on three legs, showing its mangy rump. I do not know if it knows the phrase "Stick it to the man", but boy it does a good job at it. Sensing an opportunity, he will swerve out, only to find some other looming disaster, such as a merry band of men jaywalking from the other side. In their defense, they do raise a hand, palm outward while doing this, and if that is not a polite way of saying "slow down, don't kill me, and if you do my villagers will beat you to a pulp", I do not know what is. Finally, as you crawl past a big barnyard animal, heaving a sigh of relief that it you did not hit it, the driver says "Boy, if it shook its head, (its long, strong, pointy horn) would leave a huge hole (in the window)".

This leads to many new realizations:

1. The glass in the car is not shatter-proof.

2. What are his priorities, what are yours and how are they aligned?

3. These poor drivers dance with death everyday.

Those crazy cricketers

I have previously written about the so-called "sport" of "cricket". It appears they are getting cockier (pun intended).

On page 1 of a newspaper, called "Hindu", no less, it says: [some guy] had a "stroke-filled 56-ball 127" [runs]. What is this - "Playgirl Solo"? Diarrhea digest?

Never trust a game that breaks for tea. They are corrupting our young and impressionable youth.

That is my job.

Sent from my iPhone

Recently learned...

As you know reader, I am forever thirsty for knowledge. Today, let me
impart some nuggets. Or are they drops? Dribbles? No matter.

- Humans are born musical. I know this because, when the first bloody bassinet starts wailing, all six others will spontaneously join, I believe in perfect pitch. Especially at 30,000 feet.
- I can solve the world's water problem. No sooner had I landed in India, than I spontaneously started generating water. From every pore. It would not be stopped. It's a miracle, I tell you.
- There is no limit to the number of Indian men that can get into or onto a tractor. Especially on highways. If only tractors could fly...
- My nose - *my aquiline nose* - is crooked. Twice over. This from a professional "facial surgeon".
- Never travel with crazy women.
- In the deep South of India, dosas disappoint.
- Men think of sex every 6 seconds. Even in divine presence.
- Sex may sell, but the blighted home shopping network probably sells more. A minute into it, I believe I had already bought a chapati maker; then a magnetic belt; then a fat-reduction girdle; finally some knives, just in case I decide to become Jason or Freddie. I felt guilty, so I surfed all the religious channels in a spate of unbiased and indiscriminate penitance. I wonder if India has enough TV channels...

Sent from my iPhone

Lama sighting

Unfortunately, not the Dalai, or any lama of import.

I did however spy one of the "Hollywood lamas", Steven "runs like a sissy" Segal on practically every other channel on tv here in India. Oh cruel, mocking hand of god.

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Modern miracles

(Context post to follow)

Thanks to some strings pulled, I recently had a close encounter with the famous eponymous deity in the grand old temple at Chidambaram. In the dark, dinghy and damp inner sanctum, I was about as close as an outsider would be allowed to the centerpiece.

The god looked mighty calm - and calming. One could barely make out a serene, almost Gandhara-Buddha style face with just a hint of eyes closed in divine happiness, an exquisite nose and a faint mouth. An upturned, bejeweled, disproportionately palm hand was all else visible, the rest of he deity adorned in jewels and silk. An emerald medal at his waist.

A gaggle of white-clad priests entered, left, sprinkled water on themselves out of a pot, knocked themselves in the head, made the "keep on rocking" sign etc. Finally, they assembled, to chant and reveal the famous secret of Chidbaram.

I was to visit the home of one later, but as they stood there, I presciently wondered about the poverty of these proud, broken and now ridiculed worthies. Most of their kin has decamped for an H1 or a green card, jettisoning the tuft of hair, the holy thread, the prayers. (But not the fucking mustache). Gone over to the jet age, robbing whitebread Americans of their dreary jobs. And here were left the bandy-legged, malnourished bearers of a (dying?) flag.

But at the end, I saw a chubby little mini-priest of maybe 10. Under his translucent white veshti, I could distinctly spy the famed triple-stripes of Adidas, running down the side of his shorts.

Now, I wonder - will he bridge the generational chasm, or one day cast off his whities to go over to the other side? Will he have to choose between the three stripes on his forehad, and the three strips on his shorts? Time will tell.

Sent from my iPhone

Cirque du Sania

In a noteworthy shift from movie-star headlines, India is agog with tennis-star bile. Front page and breaking news on all channels: Sania to marry Shoaib.

So she is marrying a bigamous, Pakistani cricket player. Who cares? India will lose a pair of buxom ones, but there's only about a couple of hundred millions left. I know this based on a highly statistical sampling exercise I have been conducting, purely for research purposes, you understand. Visual sampling, just to be clear.

PS: iPhone corrects "buxom" to "Nixon". You think he's turning in his grave or grinning like he proverbial Cheshire?

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Now, I've seen it all

But then again in India, one never knows.

Readers may remember my being awestruck at the Chucky episode. Today, on a national highway no less, I swear I saw a woman breastfeeding - I kid you not - her little one seated on the back of a moving motorbike.

Speechless.

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Close encounters of the Krishna kind

One of the greatest mysteries is that privately maintained public places - such as the Baha'i lotus temple - are a stark contrast to the dirt and disarray that India pretends to fight bravely. I think it is only partly because of the suspicious amount of wealth this "Baha'i" group has and deploys to maintain the complex. Somehow, the more "theirs" Indian people feel something is, the more they apparently don't give a shit. Tragedy of the commons?

After that, I went to the Iskcon temple. Some Krishnas tried conning me into paying several times the ticket price for some booby video show, having the gall to switch increase prices midway from the "local" starting price. Reminded me of a foreign friend who said she was hounded at one of their temples as well. The highlight was definitely see the Krishnas "Tubthumping" (jumping stupidly, for the kids reading this).

There was no dearth of enthusiastic, unshorn young men joining in this. Remember that chestnut about selling refrigerators to the eskimos? I thought India was a crucible of faiths. Go figure.

The Conversion

Relax, not the well dressed Mormons. I am talking about my about face regarding the city I formerly knew as Delhi (hehe).

The last time I passed by, I stopped in some shitty part of town, barely avoiding the new Indian plague called "backpackers" in some inner city-like neighborhood.

This time, accomodated as I was in the Diplomatic Enclave, and getting driven around the broad and tree-lined neighborhoods, I have decided that this is the nicest city in India. I also thought people were pushy and gruff, but on this iteration every encounter has been fairly pleasant.

Separate post on the many new ways backpackers are inducing homicidal rage will follow. Now I must buy a gun.