A cow powwow

An acquaintance of mine popped over to India. He came back and asked, what must have seemed to him, a rather pertinent question, "Why do you (Indians) have so many cows on the road?"

I must say he had an eye for detail. Only poetry has the power to counter such insightful obsoivashuns.

I once looked up into the sky,
And a bird shat in my eye,
But, I didn't fret, nor did cry,
I thanked Him, who rolled this Earthly die,
For, I am so glad that cows don't fly.

Really, we do prefer them on the roads.

Homecoming

Four weeks in I was not home. Not back in Kanpur. It was still just a muddied, muddled extension of a white-washed West. It was Cawnpore. All the way up until this morning. Then the lights went out. And they went out at a time when a person is most emotionally exposed. When he is searching deep within himself. When he is vulnerable. When he is on the John.

And in that peculiarly fraternal relationship that water shares with electricity in this city, the taps dried up. The water-boys 'n -gals amongst you will realize the enormity of the situation. This is what builds character here. Not broken relationships. This is what separates the men from the boys. This is what made those examsheets seem like so much toilet-paper.

It was deja vu. I am finally home.

The blind legal Eagle

There was a meeting today. Now that I am all grown up, and have to work for a living - like a well-adjusted social being - I was required to attend. One nugget that filtered out during the hour was that in case anyone has to reserve the institute guest house for a foreign (as in non-Indian) visitor, he has to seek permission from some Ministry or other. If the visitor hails from the Planet Zog, it is easier to leave things to him. It is amazing how people cooperate when threatened with vaporisation.

When I heard the above, all I could think was,
"Wow, we Indians pay attention to the minutest detail. Even the occupancy in guest houses of every Government run institution is closely monitored. Of course, we are more than happy to let our country be run by whim of an under-educated, coffee-slinging, pizza-rolling Italian waitresses".

I would say we missed the big picture by a wee margin over there.

While we have several laws for every tiny conceivable action you can ever imagine; but, for actions on a nation-screwing scale? Nah, no need for legistlation there.

So, from now on, I am only inviting Italian scientists over. That will throw the law-enforcing bureaucrats into moral turmoil - "to kick below, or lick above?".

Ho hum.

I am so high, I could fly

Sometime ago, our dear peace-loving Pakistani/Bangladeshi friends decided that we Hindus do not really understand spirituality and religion, and decided to ask some existential questions by scattering rather large firecrackers in the eternal town of Varanasi. I will not bore you with how many were felled by such brutal questioning, but I will point out how at least one question failed to make it to the exam centre due to a rather bizzare reason:

Had it not been for an electrician on a high after his daily fix of bhang*, the tragedy at Varanasi could have been much greater. Babulal Rawat was wandering near the Dashaswamedh Ghat when he came across a pressure cooker and with the nonchalance that comes with cannabis, held it in his hands and cut the wires. Even he did not realise that he had defused a pressure cooker bomb on Terror Tuesday**.

We now know of at least one way to save the populace from bombs - keep half of them high on cannabis. They will be tossing terrible suitcases nonchalantly into rivers.

Alternatively, get the natives high on dope - really high - so that if some of them are blown sky high, their change in altitude (and circumstance) would just seem like a variation in dosage to them. Not to mention the stars and flashing lights. I mean, who gives a shit?

Does my ire filter through?
---
* A derivative of the leaf and flower of a female cannabis plant. It is sometimes smoked. You are called gay if you smoke the derivative of the male cannabis plant.
** The exam was held rather cruelly on a Tuesday - rather a favourite day amongst the gentiles.

Dhond

Huh?

That is about the right response.

An ex-Professor of mine took the Karnataka Express* down to Bangalore. Family in tow. The sinuously desultory nature of mid-afternoon train crawls in India had forced them into siesta. But, they were rudely awakened by an ear-shattering clamour. A sound reminiscent of marching Roman legions as their breastplates thundered over Gaul. Rather galling. Or, of hundreds of pots and pans.

It was hundreds of pots and pans. Being withdrawn by hundreds of fellow travellers. The bemused educationist enquired about the nature of this epidemic off of a neighbouring Armyman who was hurriedly pulling out, hush - not a revolver, but a pot. He was answered, tersely,

"Dhond".

This was not on. No marks are ever awarded for incomplete explanations. Drawing on years of examining, the Professor homed in on the weakest link in Armyman's explanation:

"But, what is a Dhond."

Such was the power of that question, that silence fell over the coach. Pots froze, pans blushed.

"Dhond is the name of the next station."

"But, why the pots? And the pans?"

"Oh, don't you know? Dhond has the best Chicken Biryani! Anywhere!"

The famed teacher panicked.

"Really. But, we don't have pots and pans. What will we do!"

"Then the only option for you is to run like hell, and get to the Biryani-slinger before he runs out of all his take-away boxes."

The lecturer relaxed. Years of running had finally come to his aid. All his questions regarding the point of it all when his lungs burst and his legs retired were answered by four simple words, "The Chicken Biryani of Dhond".

So sprint he did. To win. And to haul back, proudly, to an admiring family the fruit, or rather the chicken, of his toils.
---
That O Voracious and Eclectic Reader is the discovery of Dhond. So, the next time you shoot of down to South India, pour over your travel itinerary, burn that midnight oil, but make sure you pass through Dhond. Also, pack your pots and pans. If not, train for short, sharp sprints. Now.

*A train connecting the civility of Bangalore to the sanity of Delhi. Or, something.

Adrift in September

If you asked me how I spent the Libran month, I have to confess; I was drifting. On a sofa. It is a facet of homes (parents' homes - not parental) that once there, dicipline is not exactly the watchword. And one prefers not watch the clock while aimlessly drifting room to room interspersed with pessimistic forages in the refrigerator. The modem has shut shop too, so you can't even digitalise immortal thoughts.

Anyway, just as all driftwood finds a coffee table, I too have found a table. An official one. One from whence I shall lord over inflated undergraduates and deflated post-graduates. Making them squirm with the slants of my eyebrows. This is also the place where I shall half-bake my nonsense before serving it to y'all. (Well done nonsense can cause heart-burn.)

Enjoy.

All this drifting made me forget my annual interview with i. on his birthday. However, let it be known that after 12 years he had a cake, gifts, party, and sundry riff-raff. Molls and dolls were sorely missed.