A Salute to the Captain.

Ron had sworn to get everybody drunk, as that was the Captain's wish, and as I stepped into the library of Shakespeare & Co Bookstore, I could see Ron abiding by his promise. The seemingly tiny room of the Tumbleweed Hotel was bustling with people, some of the usual smiling faces, the usual inebriated, the usual bystanders and some welcome new. The thread that bound us all was, we were there to pay our respects to the Late Mr. Christopher Cook Gilmore, better known to all his friends as 'Captain'.

The minute I stepped off the last wooden step onto the floor of the children's section of the bookstore, I could hear Anita, the captain's wife, announce,"Guys, please have some more wine, we've got plenty of it on the table outside."

There was still a minute or two for the 26th April 2005, 7o'clock memorial to begin for Captain Cook. With a copy of the Captain's autobiography in one hand, all set for the reading, Ron gestured me with his cupped palm, beckoning me to grab a bottle of TsingTao Beer. Anita Gilmore stood up to pay her last respects to her dear departed husband, for one last time at the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, the place where the Captain had spent a majority of his traveling life, meeting people, writing poems, and books, and experiencing a world that cannot be explained in mere words.

What thoughts breezed through Anita's mind when she started to talk about her husband, we shall never know. The moist eyes held back a fond tear, and the words poured from her heart. She recounted the Captain's stories and stay in Paris, his encounters in and around the bookshop, and their previous memorial that they had in Morocco.

...and here in this jar, we have the Captain amongst us,” concluded Anita, carefully supporting the little jar that contained the ashes of the Captain, as she placed it atop the pedestal of books over the benches in a corner. Those ashes evoked many a dear memory, in the minds of those present, and sincere tears of remembrance in the eyes of those who were close to the Captain.

The fascinating introduction of Captain Cook by Anita, was followed by a short reading by the daughter of George Whitman who is the proprietor of Shakespeare & Co, Sylvia Whitman from the Captain's book, Atlantic City Proof, published in the year 1978. Whilst the reading by Sylvia, the quibble between the characters in the book, Garvey Leek and Minnie Creek, at the onset of their ensuing friendship, reminded the audience of the different facets of the Captain's seafaring nature, and his love for boats. Anita informed the listeners, that the insider story about the book being an honest tribute by the Captain to his passion for boats.

The room was overflowing with people now, and the wine and beer bottles were floating in the air, being passed over heads from one corner to the other. Ron, a true believer in the Captain, could not help, but shed a tear in his memory. Under Captain Gilmore's aegis, Ron had given up his career in technology, and had taken up world-touring with the Captain. That, according to Ron, was probably the best decision he has ever taken in his entire life, and owed it to his 'guru'. Ron's description of their adventures at sea, at Morocco, had his listeners enchanted with their journeys, held them in awe with their dare-devil stunts, and the same audience were in splits with Ron standing before them, narrating and mimicking the Captain's idiosyncrasies.

Jonathan, who has devoted 2 years of his life to the well-being of the bookstore, recited the poem, 'The Raven', by Edgar Allan Poe as a mark of respect to Mr. Chistopher Cook Gilmore. Jonathan informed us, that his younger brother was a good friend of the Captain. The two of them used to sit in the cafe nearby, Cafe Leffe, and have bouts of discussion, play chess with ideating thought pawns, and enjoy their beverage. I would commit the poem to memory, but Jonathan had everybody in giggles, and chuckles, with a splendid recital of the said poem, which he had committed to his soul. The words poured with a rhythmic cadence, and had the people were mouthing the words with him.

Mr. Edward, who knew Captain Gilmore from his drug days, recounted a flat race event that took place inside the prison where Captain Gilmore was held in custody for more than a year, for illegal possession of hashish. Mr. Edward told everybody about a record breaking racing event; the results of the race were not acceptable to the jail authorities as it was an unofficial event. Ron chipped in, by mentioning how the Captain was unbashful of telling his war stories as well as his prison stories. “The Captain was against any kind of violence, so war was an improbability.” said Ron.

Mary Varme, a long standing friend of Mr. Gilmore, recited the beautiful 'The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock', composed by T. S. Eliot. Ms. Varme read the poem with quivering thoughts about her dear departed friend, a poem that saluted her friend in the best way possible.

Ricardo, who has been a visiting member of the Tumbleweed Hotel for quite sometime now, had been introduced to the Captain in the year 2001. Ricardo recited an Italian poem by Pier Paolo Pasolini, translated into English for the benefit of the audience. The poem, 'The lament of the excavator', was much appreciated and lauded by those present.

Mr. Raman, a good friend of Mr. Gilmore, recounted the times that he spent with the Captain. Mr. Raman also recited a poem in his language, the words that not many could understand, but with a depth that touched everybody deep within.

The curly haired man, Mr. Mark Lipman, recited a poem about marvelous shooting stars, harking down the memory about the sporadic returns of the Captain to Paris; Mark fondly spoke aloud his memories about how the Captain wrote letters and kept in touch with his father, amidst his travels. Mark also quoted the Captain words, “'...stop writing about life, and start living it...'” The Captain was a witness to the numerous aspiring writers who had lived at Shakespeare and Co. before proceeding onto their journey of life.

After Ron finished reading Mr. Christopher Cook Gilmore's autobiography, written in 1984, whence he was staying at the bookshop, Anita asked everybody to refill their glasses to hear a lovely poem, which they referred to as 'The Greatest Poem' ever written. After a singing a lovely song, Ron gave us an insight into the origin of this poem, about how the Captain used to add a line or two every time he visited Paris. Anita had us astonished by the fact that the poem was written over a period of 31 years, beginning in 1969.

The poem, titled, 'Paris Blues', got some people nostalgic about their days with the Captain. The poem reflected the thoughts of people staying at the bookstore, when the poem talked about having infrequent showers, wearing unwashed clothes, a walk across to Notre Dame, the hungry sleep, the 'oh' for those Paris girls and many more little incidents that group together giving the big picture about the blues that one faces in the city of Paris.

The recital of the poem concluded the memorial reading for the Captain; Anita invited everybody to join her in the sprinkling of her husband's ashes into the river, La Seinne that flows under the bridge that one walks from the bookshop to get to the Notre Dame cathedral. We all walked down to the river with the bottles of wine and beer. Anita scattered the ashes from the jar into the river, as a boat filled with sand passed by; friends had begun throwing a bit of wine in the general direction of the flowing ashes, and cheering the Captain and his memories, with songs and laughter.

Everybody returned back to the bookshop, arranged the benches outside, and sat down together with more bottles of wine, singing Elvis songs, smoking a joint, eating Greek food and making merry, just as the Captain would have wanted it to be. Amongst all the tears and laughter, with the surge of colorful emotions in the environment, with the wine pouring from the rim of the bottles, it almost seemed that we had relivened a special moment of being with the Captain.

Captain Cook lived life to the fullest, traveled the world over, lived in over 14 countries, sailed in a boat that he built, wrote books, served time, slept under the bridges, smoked dope, drank beer, took the bull by his horns, and gave a lot of people the mantra to live, and not just exist.


Our friend, the Captain, expired on July 1st 2004, due to a serious malignant ailment, but continues to remain in our hearts, where he will be cherished fondly, forever.

A Natural Mimic by Petite Anglaise.

This article is posted on an 'as is' basis from Expatica Website. The original post can be found here. Please leave any comments for the author Petite Anglaise at the site of original posting. The author has been notified of the posting.

A friend of mine came round for a cup of tea after work and confirmed what I had suspected: Tadpole has a broad Yorkshire accent. Short 'a' sounds (bath, glasses), nice Yorkshire 'u' sounds (mummy) and little phrases ('come 'ere!') that wouldn't be out of place in The Last of the Summer Wine. I have been unwittingly teaching my daughter Northern English.

As far as accents go, I've always been a bit of a chameleon. It's not an affectation: I don't deliberately adopt a plummy 'Received Pronunciation' (BBC English) voice to speak to VIP clients on the phone, or a thick Leeds accent when I see my family there'. I just can't seem to help myself. Whether I intend to or not, I reproduce the accent of the person I'm having a conversation with. I am a mirror of sorts.

I have a very clear memory of answering the phone as a child to a caller from my father's company head office in Dundee. In the space of a two-minute conversation I became Scottish. When I put down the phone, I felt mortified at the idea the lady might have thought I was mocking her accent. However, if you asked me to 'do a Scottish accent' right now, I guarantee it would be abysmal.

Apparently this is a well-documented phenomenon called 'unconscious mimicry'. Most people do it to some extent, and it has implications far beyond accent alone: a person will often adopt the same sentence structure, intonation and vocabulary as another. A form of linguistic empathy, or solidarity. While all children are natural mimics, as this is how they learn, most lose this ability progressively as they reach adulthood, which is one of the reasons why it makes sense for children to learn foreign languages from an early age. Evidently some adults retain a greater faculty for mimicry than others. Whether they like it or not.

The upside of this unconscious habit of mine is that my French accent is near perfect (even if my gender reassigning skills still sometimes give the game away!). It is probably a Parisian accent, if such a thing exists in this cosmopolitan city, although I'm generally poor at recognising regional French accents apart from the very obvious North/South vowel differences. I do frequently get mistaken for a native, which is something I never cease to feel childishly gleeful about.

The downside is that when speaking English with Mr Frog, I adopt a faint, but tragic Frenchaccent. It makes me cringe, but it is beyond my control. Not only do I mimic the Frog's (very charming) English accent, but I also reproduce his grammatical errors. Now that's what I call solidarity.

All in all, I suppose I should be thankful that I am naturally inclined to speak to the Tadpole in this dreadful franglais, given that she is as near to a linguistic clean slate as you can get.

I can definitely live with her being bilingual in French and Yorkshire.

Raking the Embers of YesterYears.

““Dude, Is that all what you got for the trip, fucker,” Joshu exclaimed, looking at Brad's tiffin carrier, mentally comparing the teeny parcel with his V.I.P suitcase and an extra baggage, lunging at his shoulder.

“Yeah, man. I told you, I am an expert packer,” Brad flaunted, taking a drag on his second cigarette, as they were waiting on Platform No. 2 at Mulund, the railway station closest to the suburban area where their entire group was located. “ 'And I doubt if I have forgotten anything behind. Where the fuck's the train!'”

It had been a year since those words were exchanged on their trip to Ganapati Phule sands, a local beach near Ratnagiri, on the Konkan coast lining the western shores of India. This time, the guys were off to their dreamland, 200 kilometres (125 miles) further down the previous coast.

The guys were gathered on the same platform, late at night, to travel to V.T., Bombay's major rail centre, to board the Goa bound out-station train. Lalit was making a mental note of all the bags that were gathered around on the platform, around him and everybody. Lij was with the group this time, unlike the spot entry that was seen on the last trip; he was consistent in running away from home though, without gaining any parental consent. That Lij had informed his mom and dad about his whereabouts was a consolation to everybody; abating the fear of being reported to the police.

Pushing his weight onto one leg, resting his right hand on his hip, lurching it forward a bit, Avi was toying with his short growth of beard, pondering over a residential matter with the bespectacled Ralph. Nick was hyper-excited as usual, and was beginning to mutter curses about the tardiness of the Bombay local trains, a minute after their arrival onto the platform.

An hour later, comfortably seated in the unreserved compartment of the out-station train, the feeling of ecstasy was slowly and steadily, sinking in to everybody. It was their first real getaway to another state, not just the physical state of residence, but an escape to a state of freedom and euphoria. It was their first escape to the land of parties, naked women, miles of clear sand, bugging tourists, U.V. parties, and nocturnal escapades. The boys were unaware of the roller-coaster ride that lay ahead of them, but they were sure, that they weren't going to sleep and waste the best part of the travel through the night. The horn blared, and the train heaved a bit, to move itself out of inertia, amongst the continuous chatter, their exciting 7-day trip was just about to begin.

“Who's got the Old Monk?” chirpped Brad, eager to whet his appetite for alcohol as were the others. The train had barely been moving for 2 hours now. The train snaked through the newly dug tunnels in and out, the hollow sound inside the tunnel, that is distinctly different than what the train makes when it is not inside one, was very soothing to the ears. The mood inside the compartment was beginning to mellow down, as the hours advanced, and the train sped past the smaller stations.

The group from Bombay, however, had not intentions of grabbing any sleep, and letting anybody around to catch 40 winks either. Smoking inside trains is not allowed, but is not strictly prohibited either, and the guys had started their chain-smoking, and merry-making. The 'chakanaas' (snacks) and the quarter (180ml bottle) of Old Monk rum was changing hands, cupped in a brown paper sac. The old man huddled in a blanket had begun to say his last prayers, when he found himself among the 6 Bombaites, with smoke billowing out of his blankets, and he found himself being offered the sacred alcohol and the spicy snacks. Nick had decided to hit the bunk, for an early awakening the next day.

Unfortunately for the passengers who were traveling with the group, everybody got into high spirits, and not just idiomatically; the group with their 'mellifluous' vocal-cords had begun singing enthusiastically. For those of you who know how ridiculous the song 'Banno teri ankiiyaan...' and for those of you who know Joshu as well, can very well understand the plight of the befuddled old man, when that song was being boomed into his tympanic membranes by Joshu, cupping his hands around the old chap, as if he were leaking out a gross secret. The song was not a secret, but gross nevertheless. It shall always remain a secret, whether the old man ever led a normal life after that night.

The songs were intermingled with talks ranging from murderous plots to sport discussions, and all the commotion ended up disturbing a person who had managed to snooze, up in his bunker until then. Mr. Seriously Disturbed, climbed down from his sleeping berth, and addressed Joshu very seriously, “Gentlemen, do you realize that you are disturbing everybody and that people are trying to sleep.”

At this, instead of quietening up, and apologizing for the ruckus, somebody quipped, “Sssh! Don't you see our friend, Nick is sleeping and that 'you' are disturbing him NOW.” This called for everybody around to snicker, chuckle and giggle and roll over. Mr. Seriously Disturbed climbed back onto his bunker, solemnly resolving never to travel in an unreserved compartment ever, and if forced to, he would carry a glock with him at all times, just to shoot and put himself out of misery.

It was Lij's turn to keep a watch for the station, and Avi and Brad were giving him company at the compartment door. With his legs dangling out of the train, sitting at the door ledge, alongside Avi, Lij was keeping a sleepy-eyed watch for the Margao station that we had to disembark to proceed to reach our final destination. Anjuna Beach, Goa. Nick had gotten up by then, and was washing his face at the 'sarvajanik' faucet that was spewing out metallic tasting water. Fiddling with the last cigarette in his first pack to be finished, Josh quipped, “Do you want to light another one, man!” Without watching Brad nod his drowsy head, Joshu struck a match and cupped the flame with his left hand, lit his cigarette. Margao was not even an hour away.

“Is anybody interested in 'chai'?” Lalit enquiringly looked at all the faces, finally meeting Ralph's eyes, who agreed to get down onto the platform where the train had halted. It was early in the morning, the normal chirping of the birds was drowned in the 'tring-tring' sounds made by the cold-drinks vendors. The sweet aroma of tea was awakening everybody in the train. It was a long halt, as the train had reached a spot on the tracks where just one train could pass by. It was a scheduled stop, so nobody grumbled, instead everybody decided to get off the platform and have a good stretch.

Ralph was returning with a pack of vada-pavs (fried and breaded potatoes) devoring one himself.
“Where did you lose Lalit?”, Avi inquired, mildly scanning the platform behing Ralph.
“He's coming. He's gone to make some inquiries about the train timings,” Ralph stammered with crumbs of bread falling onto the platform.

The minutes passed by, with everybody sipping their second cup of chai, breathing in the morning fresh air, and everybody was eager to get going again. The train blared its horn and made a soft chugging sound, indicating that it was about time to get going.

The sun had come out from behind the mountains, as the train slowly and hestitantly pulled into Margao station, albeit 2 hours after the intended time of arrival. This did not dampen the spirit of the group, as they trudged their way out to figure out how to proceed.

The place was crawling over with buses, cabs, trucks and jeeps of varying sizes, and with varying fares to take their passengers to their destinations. After much haggling, Avi and Lalit found a seemingly sturdy vehicle for our journey to Anjuna beach; the price was Rs. 20 ( 50 US cents) per head, and rounded off to Rs. 100 for everybody.

The house locator was Ralph who had the address to the bungalow, where the guys would be camping throughout the trip. However, it was difficult to find out where the gang was dropped at by the driver. Those palm trees in almost every direction did not aid their sense of direction. The calm ocean waves were inviting, beckoning the guys to jump in and the azure sky was lulling everybody to sleep. Nick decided to move their baggage and shove everybody into the shade before proceeding any further, in the scorching sun. The smokers decided to take a small break before starting to walk. The first group consisting of Nick, Lalit, Lij and Ralph moved on with their bags.

After much contemplation and about 30 minutes, Avi succeeded in dragging the remaining two to walk to their house instead of camping right there, as Joshu had removed his shoes and was wearing his hat right over his eyes, all set to take a small nap. About half a kilometre ahead, they found the other group trudging along slowly.
“Hey look, our guys haven't got really far. I guess, walking in the hot sun on this beach with those heavy baggages is really difficult,” Further thoughts about their difficulties were arrested by the sighting of the first naked breasts on the beach. Those breasts were just lying right there atop a naked woman, who face was shaded beneath a straw hat. Within 5 minutes of beginning to walk, Avi, Joshu and Brad realized how tired they were to proceed any further, and decided to park for 20 minutes right besides their hot and brand new resting partner.
“Aah...Now you know why those guys didn't get any further than that...he heh” Avi chuckled, and Joshu and Brad joined in, almost waking those tits up.

After having an eyeful of utopia that lay in front of them, they started walking reluctantly in the general direction of their compatriots who were not in sight presently. Walking like a troll, Joshu was reminding bystanders of the dying sheikh in the Arabian deserts, dragging his suitcase behind him.

At the same time, Ralph was talking with his aunt from Bombay, who was there much before they arrived. She had made all the arrangements for her nephew and his friends to rest and have a wonderful stay, right from the free coconuts to the made up beds. By this time, Joshu and Avi were crawling into the bungalow; closely following at their heels was Brad, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Within moments of arrival, Lalit, Lij and Nick changed into their swimsuits and strolled towards the warm sea for a dip. Avi's hunger had kicked in and needed some good food and water, really exigent, as he was convalescing from a relapse of hepatitis. Joshu unpacked the food, spread out the spicy Indian pickles, and chappati (kneaded and rolled wheat bread) onto a leaf of newspaper that was lying around.

Brad was lying on the cot, observing the dried white paint that hung loosely from the ceiling, shifting his gaze to the swaying palm leaves outside the mud hut, pulling at his cigarette softly. Picking up the offered cigarette, Joshu visually caressed the bare backs of the women that were seated on the verandah.

“I think we should offer them some of this stuff. Foreigners usually love spicy pickles. What say?”, Avi suggested, mocking Joshu's stare.

“Sure, why not? Go ahead, my man,” Joshu winked at Brad, as Avi got up and dusted his back, packing the stuff with one hand.

Brad got up from his resting position to follow the situation, and Joshu had already started chuckling with anticipation. Avi walked up to the girls, and offered the eats, which was politely declined and the bearded man walked back into the room.

“Well, that was a good show of feeding the dogs some shit, 2 minutes after getting to be neighbours,” said Brad, in an attempt to irritate Avi.

Avi did not respond and walked to the back of the room, showing his middle finger to Joshu and Brad. Brad got his cigarette back from Joshu, and the two of them laughed harmoniously.

On the beach, Lalit was swimming vigorously, against the waves, as it was high tide then. Lalit stood up in 4 feet of water, and yelled to Lij, "Come on further in, man. The water's pretty darn good."

Lij hestitated for a moment, before moving in. Nick was further away from the 2 of them, trying to compete with Ralph who was practising his underwater strokes. After a long haul from Bombay, it took not more than 35 minutes for the four of them to move out of the water and bask in the afternoon sun. 10 minutes later, they were carrying their sand-covered bodies towards the house that was sheltered amongst a thousand palm trees.

Dusting the sand off his chest, and flicking his head to one side to get the hair out of his eyes, Lalit was enjoying the warmth of the rays on his bare neck, savoring every movement of the trees ahead. It seemed like Mother nature was orchestrating a panaromic dance just for his benefit. Lapping every bit of it, he raced the others to the bungalow.

Certain facts about the bungalow were hidden from its presents occupants though.

(To be continued...)

Beads of Euphoria.

I walked out of FranPrix, a local supermarket, a stone's throw from my place of work, grabbing 2 chicken sandwiches and a bag of tortilla chips. I had planned on eating in the privacy of my air cubicle, at my work-station. I was feeling quite proud about not having succumbed to the pressure of smoking, over the weekend that had just scampered by. The thinker by the road, lay in shambles, with his adamantly dirty coat covering his head, a needle by his side, and crumbs of bread strewn around his limp hand.

It was about 2 in the afternoon, the sun was abnormally high in the winter sky, and it felt good basking in those rays as I trudged over the cold snow beneath my feet. Just then, I am not sure whether it was my subconsious that spoke to me as I stared at the lifeless form of the man, or a meta-physical entity, and I guess I shall never know. “Hearken! My dear friend, you were right and I was wrong. You had chosen rightly, I wish I had; I can't change the past, for I am alive no more.” It felt like a thought from a swiped chunk of memory was addressing my conscious being, beckoning me to write out about him. Tinnu, as he was then called, was taking me back down the memory lane, to when it all started.

If I had to describe Tinnu's story right from the beginning to his adolescent death, I would have to say, 'cliched' is the word. I shall spare you the suspense, Tinnu died 8 years back as a result of an overdose of methampethamine, more popular these days as 'crystal meth' amongst the hip-hop, mobile totting, youngsters hanging out in flashy outfits, atop their trendy mode of transports, whilst fashionably pouting over a cigarette. The colors of glamor and vanity, as seen
through the tinted shades, pull the wool over their innocent eyes, as they take a long, supposedly satisfying drag that pulsates the euphoria right through their systems. Tinnu got his hits via injections, another excellent mode of self-destruction, which finally led to his cosmic calling.

Parikrama, the rock-band from Delhi used to play often at Mood-Indigo, during my undergraduate years, and it was the second year of my engineering debacle, and we could hear the other bands ululating the red carpet welcome for the P-band that was to play in a short while. Thanks to inflation, we were forced to buy our 'quarters' (180ml containers) of alcohol, and make ourselves comfortable in the backyard of an isolated shanty, guzzling our lurid liquor to glory. There were too many of us to place a finger on the actual count, but a ballpark figure of 15 would be satisfactory. Through my glazen vision, I could see my drinking buddies roll and strike up a cigarette. Olfactory senses told me that this smoke was laced with THC, and unfortunately, it seemed to make perfect sense to 'try'.

Well, I am not a druggie but I have 'tried' herbal narcotics on some ocassions, a fact that I am not proud of. I am quite happy that I did not venture into other aspects of the drug-culture, that included snorting, sniffing, pill-popping, injecting, palette-lining and other methods of abuse that I am thankfully ignorant of. However, I have been a mute witness to acts of self-destruction, and am also guilty of indirectly promoting this behavior in some of my friends, by not opposing their dreadful actions; a crime that I shall forever atone in repent, a realization put into focus by the demise of my friend, Tinnu.

After the quick 'vamoose' from the Chinese stall, the freebirds flocked at the entry points of the rock concert. Some of us gate-crashed into the concert, as that was the 'in' thing to do, and some of us bought entry tickets in 'black', using a lefthandshake. We all met up inside, and were sitting snugly, with our backs resting against the topmost step of the concrete structure. The crowds were smoking anything and everything, a collosal destruction that I look down upon with contempt and sincerely wish that I could rewind and orchestrate the whole affair in a different manner. I don't regret my actions though, funnily; but given an opportunity, I would play my cards differently. Cuddled in the arms of somebody, we were blowing circles of smoke, entertaining the crowds with blith rings, and then a syringe dropped to the ground. Tinnu died with a smoky halo around his head.

The shrieks from the bystanders, as they watched him convulse, perversely trying to congress the steps. Tinnu's friends were high on substances unknown to me, his group had joined our group outside the gates, so he was more of an acquaintance than a friend to us. We were in a better position to think, considering our levels of sobriety. None of us were trained in any sort of paramedic action to be taken in such a situation. I tried to massage his already over-heated body foolishly, thereby aggrevating his already worsened situation. Tinnu's body stopped contorting, and he lost consciousness, and the scene of his possum body rolling down a few steps, still remains vividly clear in my mind. The well-wishers scooting away from the scene, but remaining within a good distance to witness a case of serious overdose. Another friend of his, probably his companion in deed, stubbed out the cherry of a burning cigarette on his body, trying in vain to revive his dead friend.

The ensuing silence in front of the operation theatre, the singed look on everybody's face, the fear in the eyes, the wailing of Tinnu's parents over his lifeless body, leaves me numb even today. I recollect Tinnu's mom, holding onto his beaded chain, as they rolled his body into the autopsy room, the distinct drop of every link to the floor, echoing through the hospital corridors, ringing through every soul present, shattering the ephemeral beads of euphoria.

Fictional Realm.

Tinge of Salt.

And then something happened...

The clock applet dropped a minute after 6.35p.m., and I shuffle my legs,pushing the blood into those limbs, running the mental prep of 'what to do next', not really expecting an answer. I don my jacket, pick up my bag, and waving a quick 'Au revoir' to my colleagues, I step out onto the wooden verandah, to breath in the fresh green air into my smoke-free lungs. I have been smoke-free for more than a commendable 2 weeks now.

I dribble my feet down the wooden steps, and my mood has swung into an altruistic nook. Ruminating my thoughts, mulling over the troubles of a friend, I pass by the local bakery, mentally rejecting the thought of an expensive croissant, feeling the embossment over the coins in my pocket. I walk by the usual thinker, who must be in his late thirties, who sits by the road, puffing away to glory, drinking a bottle of cranberry juice, and muttering unaudibly to himself.

I have seen him sit there by himself everyday, with the usual berry juice in his mud-stained hands, clad in an unclean shirt, and a matching denim to go with. I have seen him polish his light brown shoes with newspaper folds, and pull up his socks for an unchallenged day. I have seen him dutifully put 40 cents to use the public toilet, rather than ease himself on a wall nearby, for free. People walk by, throwing their extra change in front of him. He is not begging for alms, he is reading his newspaper, commenting on the current affairs unaudibly.

I am standing on the left side of the cross-walk waiting for the lights to turn green so that I can walk by. The light turned green three times, probably or more, as I continued to observe my thinker. On closer observation, I see his slightly wrinkled face beneath the sage like beard, telling me an untold story. He is not a beggar by choice, actually, he is not a beggar at all. Those coins could fool anybody, it fools him as well. I wonder what is it that happened that brought him to this stage, and what is it that he plans to do to walk the rest of his long remaining life.

The light turned green again, and I crossed the stripes. I glanced back again, to see him staring at me; uncomfortably I kept walking on, and musing over his situation. Why would he polish his shoes, why would he not use the walls to take a leak, why would he not drink alcohol like a normal wastrel but cranberry juice? If I spoke French well enough, I would have asked.

I often used to wonder, why am I in a position where I am right now! Was it where I had planned to be, according to my 5-year plans, five years back.

5 years back, I was sitting at the local tapri, with a short stubble, grieving over a then-lost-now-forgotten girlfriend, didn't drown myself in alcohol, but numerous cups of chai, smoked cigarettes on credit, read the Times cover to cover, watched every friend of mine doing exactly what they wanted to do or so I thought, and I looked at myself and sighed.

I put out my cigarette, blew the filthy smoke in streams down my nostrils and said to myself that even this shall pass. The future is not entirely in my hands, some people chalk a framework, some keep the scaffolding ready, and most of them like me then, lived in the past, but atleast they were worrying about their future, trying to stitch a net, and there I was, sitting unconcerned. Many of them, continue to worry even now, since I haven't done anything to change or save the world as yet. Luckily, I chose to differ and never turned back. Awakening from my grieving grave, I walked into another land, and it didn't just happen one fine day. That was 5 years back.

Those wrinkles behind that beard reminded me of a story that I hadn't asked for. I walked on, fiddling my keys in my pocket. I toy with the idea of defining what is 'present', for by the time, I savor the present, it's already become the past. With every passing moment, the past continues to move away from the present, and a moment in future becomes now. I had just seen what I could have become, and I shudder, and I find myself more at peace at what I am now.

A better tomorrow depends on how you choose to define it. Life does not end with the loss of something, as Robert Frost has said, 'it goes on'. You have to realize that it is your birthright to enjoy every moment of it, to savor and relish the delight of being what you are right now. You may not like the situation that you are in right now, but go easy on yourself and think about the fact that you are better off than many unfortunate souls.

It was time to put my cribbing and anxious mind in the backseat, when I see friends pick sandwiches out of the trashcan, sleep on the sidewalks with a book on their face, the temperature plummets to a minus ten degrees celcius, and he re-defines 'open house'. I consider myself lucky that I am not driven to that state of hunger, when there are no rules anymore. In the dead of night, as I walk back to my apartment after a binge, I see a soul digging his hand into the trash bag, searching for a morsel of food to apease the obvious hunger. I climb down with some remaining food, but I don't see him any where in sight. I try to offer the food to another lady, who refuses my gesture politely. With the growing concern for psychopaths who kill by feeding poison, it is better to eat from the trash than from an aluminium foil. Her concerns are not unjustified. I place my food carefully in the trash, and walk back home. What must have been their 5-year plan, if they had one, ever. Did they see themselves like this before? Where had they gone wrong? Are we not lucky? I eat food everyday and many a sight prove to be the salt for the best sauce I have ever had.

(To be continued...)

Date comes out of the Closet.

This happened on the third date, and we hadn't got to the 'let's go home' thing. In fact, I was mentally prepared not to make it to the fourth date, because I was finding it difficult to find interesting facets about my date, and making conversation with guesses is not easy.

I was running late, as usual when Donna called up an hour before the scheduled time, to check if I was goin' to be late 'as usual'. In order to save my non-existent pride, as far as punctuality is concerned, I assured her that she should come atleast 30 minutes late, thereby saving us both the mandatory argument about 'keeping her waiting' and yes, I was going to be late by 15 minutes even then.

With some stroke of luck, it started snowing very heavily, and she got stuck in the traffic, and it was my turn to deliver the 'kept me waiting' kick-off statement. But, I am a Gandhian, and politely showed her the time on my watch, her watch, my celfone, and asked the waiter if the restaurant clock was running fast by any chance. I am not sure whether that was it that triggered what was to follow, or was it something else. I wouldn't be surprised if you guessed what bush I am trying to beat around, but you will be taken aback nevertheless.

Something was fishy about Donna that evening. She seemed normal, but I was beginning to smell something fishy. Call it my clairvoyant nature, or attribute it to the sushi joint that we were sitting at, Huka-Shi-Wa! Nice place, but what a peculiar name. Wonder what it meant!

Donna quips very chirpingly, "Hey, Guess What!?". That's Donna's usual way of starting any conversation, so I have given up guessing. The first time she hit me with that, with a lot of enthusiasm, I started guessing different things, and it turned out that her maternal cousin in Cambodia was chosen to be the chief priest of the temple in that village. How in the 'world' is one supposed to guess that kind of a thing! Another time, she met MaryJane in the train. That was our first date, and I was beginning to resolve, that the next time, I was goin' to guess that 'I was soon not going to be seeing her anymore'. But it never got to that.

So, there I was sipping my cabbage soup, trying hard not to guess anything, as I would be disappointed anyway.

I am a business woman!", with the standard Donna-smile on her face, and this time with a twinkle of excitement in her bright brown contact-lensed eyes.

"Yey, Good for you!", trying desperately not to guess what kind of business she was into. I know for a fact that she dropped out of under-graduate school, because she wanted to pursue more 'aesthetic' interests. Since, I wasn't going to ask her to marry me the next day, I didn't prod much into that. "So what is it that you sell?", I posed, biting into the wasabi dipped sushi rolls, and fiddling with those plastic chopsticks.

"I sell myself." Donna states matter-of-factly. I give my natural reaction when I don't comprehend, "Ok". But she's a nice girl, and seemed very excited at the thought of confiding in me, I add, "But, what is it that you sell, yourself".

"I sell myself.", and she starts giggling with no restraint, at me being non-plussed. Donna speaks good English, but I am not understanding the language now. The verb has to be applied to an object, and either I was going selectively deaf, or Donna was upto her Donna-Tricks. She had referred to one of her previous pranks with that misnomer. I give her the usual I-still-don't-know what you were doing last summer look.

"I wouldn't say I am a prostitute, but most people choose to use that term. I think of it as another form of labor. And it wins me my bread." I was about to stand and clap, as her conviction had me convinced. My Mensa brain kicked in, damnnit, she was an actor, and a might good one too, but why did she choose this topic of flesh-trade to break the news to me, that she had gotten her first break somewhere, some theatre, some movie, I thought.

"Wow, That's some news, so how did all this happen?", retaining my genuine interest, and polishing off the sushi rolls.

"You are not taken aback by that?" She did look a bit taken aback herself though, ironically.

"Taken aback with what", replaying her statement again in my head.

"That I am a prostitute!". She didn't seem to be dicomfitted with that, and it was too late for me to be discomfitted, as I had already congratulated her on being one, just 10 seconds back.

I was beginning to think, that this could be one of those Donna-tricks, which I do not understand. And I wasn't sure, whether I should play along and see how far she went with it, or just fall for it. I decided to fall.

"Wow, That's some news" I didn't know what to say, toying with my wallet.

"You are the first guy who has been so cool with that. It is dignified labor, especially when one is hungry, and besides, I always use contraceptives. Always. So you see, I am very very careful. Always." At that, I began searching my back pockets for that Nobel that I had tucked away during the day.

"What in the world was a dignified laborer doing in the metallurgical sciences section of the public library? It was the Reference Section that I met Donna, or was it Dirty_Donna? I could understand Anatomical Sciences, but Metallurgy for Heaven's sake! I ran through my checklist of top 100 things-to-do in my life before I started with the 101st one, whether dating a body-waiter was one of them. I didn't realize that I was using my chopsticks to knit a sweater with the noodles, by then.

"Uhmm...Well, So how did you get into it". I actually wanted to ask about the connection between metallurgy and sex. I know, I should be annoyed that she didn't tell me this in the first place. But hey, we started off discussing mineral ores in Siberia the first time we met, and the topic about what I do, and what she does for a living never came into the picture. And she said that she was a self-learning student, who didn't want to be registered at school, possibly because of the high tuition. So basically, we didn't get a chance to discuss our bread-winning duties as yet.

"You sure, you are not upset with what I just said." It's been 2 minutes since she has declared 'Huka-Shi-Wa', and I haven't given the reaction that she was anticipating. Hell, what reaction was I to give, even if I had recognized that she was in fact what she said she was.

"Nopes, not really. In fact, I think, it is very honest of you to confide in me.", I retorted matter-of-factly, disguising my astonishment. I was still toying with the connection between metallic ores, and human orifices, and my date.

"Hey, can I ask you one thing, do you put on make-up?", Donna was looking at my face very inquiringly, and a teeny weeny bit of irk.

Nature plays tricks on everybody, by giving them unwanted birth marks. Some people cover up by calling it a 'beauty spot', others have them concealed, with luck, in some unseen part of the body. When it came to me, I can imagine the impish grin on my maker, when he/she must have been saying,"Hey, I have given this one some good sharp features, proper brains, all's well, now give me some clues on how should I mess this one up!". And his boss must have yelled, "Do what the fuck you want, just be creative." So my creative creator, gave me eyes with permanent make-up. My extra long eye lashes curl up way too much, as they have been artificially done to give it a very feminine look. And to provide finishing touches, the eyes give off a super sharp look, thus projecting my eyes onto anybody's impressions, the first time, I look at them. This is not me complaining, but this is me saying what one needs to know, when I replied to Donna.

"Yes, I do." It was my turn to see how she would react.

"But why?" It didn't sound like an exclamation, but more like a curious inspection, and I was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable, with the lying.

"I have always put on make-up onto my eyes. It's something that I feel comfortable with."

"Errr..Uhmmm...Are you what it means! I don't mean to pry, but you have to make that very clear."

With no clue, what Donna was blabbering now, I blabbered along,"Errr...Uhmmm...Yes. I hope that's alright with you!"

"No, of course not. It is certainly not alright with me. What do you take me for?" Donna was not smiling anymore. She looked glaringly, and with a touch of stern indignation, she muttered, "And, for your kind information, I am not a whore like you think, I was just trying to see your view point on the subject. I wanted to know the psychological setup of my date. And I can very well see that you are messed up."

"Hmmm...I know.", not putting up a defence of any kind. To be honest, I didn't see any point. I didn't even feel like asking what did she think of men who put on make-up, and in what way, did that qualify to be crowned with the adjective 'messed-up'.

"No wonder, you didn't get shocked with my statement, you sick man! I am gonna leave now, and don't bother calling me up. I am not interested in seeing a person like you any more." She flicked some bills out of her purse, and left without having her dessert.

I tossed a coin, for heads, to go after her and tell her that it was a joke, and tails, to finish my dessert. The coin called heads, and I started to sip my cafe, wondering what is it that she thought I was, since I didn't have any idea. And what was a prostitute turned psychology student doing in the metallurgical sciences section.

I tipped the waiter heavily, and made a quick exit, to catch the last Metro to the nearest pub, to hangout with some cooler people.

Fictional Realm!

Enough Time?

"The earth revolves around the sun in about 365 days. One day has 24 hours in it, an hour has 60 minutes in it, and a minute has 60 seconds in it. The physical concept of time has been quantified and sealed. Defining a second in terms of the movement of the planet around the solar power does seem to be the best way, or is it?

'Time flies', as they say, depends on the circumstantial moments. Reiterating a known cliche, a minute with your lover is not the same minute over a lit gas stove; banging on the same nail, would it be correct to say that after 30 years of being with a person, one can remain elusive, and spending a moment with another could reveal soul facts.

The qualitative measure of time is developed within a person in a myriad of ways, and is different for each person. 20 years could be a long time for a teenager to have spent with his or her parents, 20 years could be a moment's glance for a happily married couple. Circumstantial evidence would be much needed to quantify time qualitatively.

If you do not know what is going to happen tomorrow, is there any point in thinking about it? In the present book that I am reading, 'Life of Pi', there is a brief mention about how death is jealous of life and hence sticks very close to it. The inevitable finality is eternal, and that fact cannot be argued against. Death causes physical separation, but that does not deter one from loving another, getting involved with another, and being together. Should it be considered to be a risk? Must one accept the risk of separation and hope for the best? Or should one think a day ahead in life and do what's best for tomorrow instead of today?

Can we compare death of a partner to a divorce or to distancing; they are all separation in their own ways. They all lead to something that cannot be be called as 'joy', except that the latters could be worse, if a despicable view is taken into consideration. Must not we enjoy the fact that the person is alive and is in a position to counter react, rather than think about the day when he or she is not going to be there. Must we not love the fact that he/she is right there in front of us, rather than think about sustenance in absence.

The temptation to shield oneself from the unforeseen future in anticipation is quite a difficult one to resist. Nobody likes to be hurt or suffer intentionally. Is it justified to react defensively in lieu of taking risks or treading on invisible steps, and masking it as a precautionary measure?

Is prevention really the cure?

Cuisine en France

Cuisine en France. (Cooking in France)

*Listening to 'What You Waiting for' by Gwen Stefani.* Pretty catchy.

Ever since June 2nd 2004, the day I landed up in Paris, I have been eating out at various restaurants, not because I suddenly realized the existence of a silver spoon in my mouth, but out of sheer compulsion. Somtimes, the team of cryptographers go out to eat lunch, and I am one of 'em. No, it is not a office dictat to eat together, but I prefer to join them every now an then; helps me increase my knowledge. No, not technical knowledge, but linguistic knowledge.

Well, June falls under the 'summer month' category, so the then preferred luncheon by most Frenchies is 'salad'. Now, the mention of a 'salad', can be surely prevaricative. Now imagine salad leaves, lots of salad leaves, scattered with sauteed onions and potato chips, slice up 2 boiled eggs, a couple of tomato slices, 3 slices of whole wheat bread toasted with butter on the reverse, and the obverse is overed with melted cheese of different types. Put some ham slices below the leaves, and pronto, you have 'Salades du Berger', roughly translated to 'Shepherd's Salad' or 'Salad of the Shepherd'. Now, you can mix and match different types of cheese, and meat, and salad leaves, and call them different names.

'Chevre' is goat cheese, 'Rockfert' is cheese from cow's milk and fungus is 'compulsorily' allowed to grow into it, and tastes amazingly swell, 'Reblochannade' another type of cheese made from cow's milk, although the preparation method is different obviously and unknown to me, 'Emmantel' is another good variety, and there are about 396 of 'em, whose names I can't remember and don't care to. And a particular cheese tastes exceptionally good when consumed avec (with) a specific type/cut of wine.

There are more varieties and blends of wines than people in Paris, and I have tasted most of the cheaper variety, primarily because of the obvious reason that they are less expensive. They do not taste as 'celestial' as the more expensive wines though. I have tasted some of them as well luckily. Most wines are named after the region where the come from, so you will find their names on the wrapper on the bottle. For example, Chateau, Bordeaux. Champagne is the name of a place over here in France, and that's how the drink derives it's name. So calling sparkling white wine as 'champagne' made somewhere else would be incorrect. (apologies to Rob Lowe in 'Wayne's World')

France is inhabited by people from all over. Mostly Algerians, Romanians, Sri-Lankans, Greeks, and surprisingly not many Indians or Chinese. So obviously, there are many restaurants by all the aforementioned folks. Greek restaurants have sprouted around almost every corner. Since this city is just like Bombay, you will see cartwaalahs with their wares, sometimes food, sometime trivia, sometimes antique stuff, almost anything. Greek restaurants can be identified by their extremely poor hygiene, oops...can be identified by a triangular mass of mutton slabs strung together on a rod that rotates and stuff gets heated by a chamber of burning coals on one side. That might be a tad difficult to imagine, I shall admit. They are certainly the cheapest among all the restaurants in Paris. I just love 'Merguez Sandwiches', merguez are Spanish sausages. A 'Grec'(Greek) sandwich is characterized by it's pita wrapping, with salad fillings, and extremely oily meat in it, and super crisp fries. Err...In France, we don't call them 'French fries', you see. Just 'Frites', that's French for 'Fries' !

Indienne or Indian restaurants are also seen once in a while as you drive; I have been to just 2 of them, and the 'baingan bhartha' was good. Since I keep going to the same restaurant pretty often, atleast once in two weeks, the chef knows me, and makes it in a good manner, to be read as, does not scratch his balls or armpits before touching those 'aubergines' ( US-eggplants, IND-brinjals) and puts in extra spice, without the previously required nod. So, it's the usual Indian food, chicken tikka masala, tandoori, naan, kulcha etc etc...You know it all. And KingFisher of course, that is guzzled by my French friends, I choose to abstain. Now if it were Khajuraho, then it would have been difficult.

Let's come to Thai. Aah...I have not had Thai food in France, so I can't say anything about Thai. Same goes for Chinese, Malaysian, Euthopian, Nigerian. Alrite alrite, I'll stop pakaoving.

How can I forget Italian or Italienne! The first time, I had pizza over here, I had no idea what was in store for me. I am quite used to the nice, hand tossed pizza in the United States, all sliced up, with garlic sauce on the sides, with numerous customized toppings, that makes your tongue drool, and salivate for sure. And over here, the crust is so thin there is no way, you can slice it up, and if it you shall be having one 'flaccid' slice in your hand, and that is not a good sight. So you are served the entire pizza, 12"...I am still talking about pizza...diameterwise, and the names are lovely, will
come to that in a bit. The basic ingredients would be mozarella (Italian cheese, of coz'), tomato salsa and the flour that goes into making the crust/seating. Now on top of this mandatory stuff, you can order a Vegetarienne-vegetarian pizza, which consists of mushrooms, onions, brinjal slices, olives, fat red peppers (Shimla mirch), Texane-cornbeef, smudges of other fat, and parsley, Orientale- Merguez pieces and that's it. Napolitane- sea food stuff, and me is not interested, DonCarlo- Horribly perfect circular, extremely thin slices of superHuge sausages, embedded in cheese, Royalle- Everything, and there are other names that are not comin' to me right now. And all these pizzas have got No-Paltee egg thrown in, and when you spread the yolk on the pizza, it apparently tastes good, but I hate it, and its always 'sans oeufs' for me. Oeuf equals Egg.

Plat du Jour. Plate of the Day. That's usually the most interesting dish in any restaurant. Once, somebody ordered 'boudin', which he asked me take a bite from his plate as an experiment. I did, and it tasted lovely. It was made from the blood extracted from the intestines of a pig. Now that was said with an intention to make my stomach shudder, but I exclaimed 'C'est Magnifique'. Now, what can I say to something that tastes like 'New Azaad made onion bhajiyaas'. That was good. If that's on the menu, I am getting that, so what if it's made of pork blood. 'Yech', is that what I hear you say. Trust me, you will have to taste it to acknowledge my words. That was just an example of 'Plat du Jour', there are other dishes, like lamb chops cooked with some special herbs, making it taste like cauliflower, that was 'C'est Formidable'. (Formidable in French means 'fantastic'!
Queer... isn't it).

Likewise there is Tartine du Jour. The basic idea being bread toasts with 'X' on it. X could vary, eally vary from fish eggs, cavier, to goat cheese, to chorizo sausage pieces. They are named sometimes after different artists, for reasons unknown. Rembrandt is my favorite. It's got spicy sausage slices, with fried tomatoes, cheese of course, and salad leaves on the side, with mustard, sel and poivre (salt and pepper...You guessed it) Tart du jour. This is different. Imagine wooden bowl, with 'x' number of cheeses that you have requested, melted cheese, with pomme de terre (apple of the soil...if literally translated, for the simple minds like me, it's potatoes), oignons (onions...yeah, that was simple). It all depends on what kind of cheese you want in your Tart du jour. Just so that you don't make a mess with all your stupid choices, the restaurant, pre-arrange the choices, and you just select. Numero Dix pour moi/ma, si'l vous plait. Number 10 for me, please. Simple. Reblochannade, if you want to Google. That's a kind of cheese, already talked about a few paras up.

Kir, or Keer, is white wine with berry juice in it, tinged with something, and laced with another something, both are the bartenders choices, and you have control over him. So when you say 'Kir', you have no idea what you are gonna get. You just have to try. Rest assured, you won't be disappointed, if ou are a 'kir' lover. I think, I would pass on 'Kir', if I had a choice between Beer and Keer. It does not rhyme with Beer, it rhymes with....hmmm....Try this...The drink that is available at Dadar station r mebbe Byculla called 'Neera', remove the letter 'a' in it, and that's the closest rhyming word that I could think of. Can't think of any English or Hindi words that rhymes with the pronunciation of 'Keer'. ut it certainly does not rhyme with 'Beer' ! Oh yeah, how the gaavtiis say 'beer' as 'beeeeeerrrrr'...something like that ! He he heh.

'Leffe'. That's my favorite beer. It's Belgium, 6.5%, and has got a bitter taste to it, and a very ...hmmm...good flavor. Next in line would have to Amstel, it's good, and cheap. Oh oh...Before I forget, 'Pastis' or more famous with the brand name 'Ricard'. It's got this dumb liqourice flavor to it, which I dislike. The bartender serves a small glass filled with pastis, and another jar with ice cubes, and cold water. You are supposed to make your own drink combination, as you like it. Liqourice is 'Jeera Goli' taste, and certainly not good when it's a drink. Absinth also tastes exactly like JeeraGoli juice. Does give you a good high though. The way the guy makes you the Absinth drink is cool. Alrite, Squarish crystal glass on the coaster, now keep a stylish wire guaze on top of the glass, keep a lump of sugar on top of it, pour the Absinth into the glass over the sugar through the gauze, and set the lump of sugar on fire, it burns with a bluish tinge, very cool sight, and then after the flame dies out, put the burnt sugar into the drink, and stir the drink. Neat! The absinth that I had was the one with NO hallucinogens in it, very unfortunate indeed. It's not really legal, but I am sure there are places where you can get them, if one really wanted to. My curiousity hasn't been picked as yet. I got drunk on that itself, so was cool.

Well, there are many things that I could continue to write about, but I believe I have touched the important items. The myriad of genres of French food is amazing, and certainly tastes better than the food that I was having in the United States, no offence. The French don't make burgers as good as the Americans do, of coz'!!! But you know now, where 'burger' (berger) comes from, nei !