Map Schmap

I recently received this email from some company calling itself Schmap. Briefly, what they had to say was this

:: Schmap: Oslo Photo Short-list

Hi Atulya,

I am writing to let you know that one of your photos has been short-listed for inclusion in the fourth edition of
our Schmap Oslo Guide, to be published early January 2008.
(Link to Schamp's site where the photo was to be found)

While we offer no payment for publication, many
photographers are pleased to submit their photos, as Schmap
Guides give their work recognition and wide exposure, and
are free of charge to readers.

A quick background check of Schmap revealed that it was in fact some genuine thing, and according to reader reviews, purported to be a "wikitravel meets Lonely Planet" online travel guide. And they sure had a smart way of sourcing their content. Without paying a cent for their photographs, and without worrying about copyright claims, they are relying on photographer's egos (The photographs are credited to them, remember) leading them to grant permission to use their photos for the guide(s). Fair enough. I was more than glad to agree. It can't be too long before they can rely on the same route to source their text content and reviews as well. Basically, not too long before the likes of Lonely Planet and Frommer's are driven out of business.

PS: Having established Schmap's credentials, a quick google of the mail's contents revealed that I was most certainly one of a multitude of people contacted this way.

And a further check to see what photo of mine they had actually decided to use proved to be a bit of a disappointment actually. The selected photo was an arbit, out of the way, almost an apology of a snap, taken almost as an afterthought in front of the Nobel Freddsenter (Nobel Peace Center) in Oslo. Apart from its obvious, current claim to fame, it used to be a disused railway station. Still, not a very impressive building, and certainly not an impressive snap.

Well, for now, who cares...

I'm famous!

Yeah seriously. At least somewhat. Okay, maybe famous is too strong a word, but "famous" enough for me to be accosted recently by a seemingly random stranger and asked "Excuse me, are you the quizzer from IIMB?"

Let me clarify from the outset that I wasn't attired in one of Planet Mars' seemingly endless range of IIMB jackets/sweatshirts/t-shirts, so there is no way he could have known I was the quizzer from IIMB. I wasn't even in one of the several Quizcorp T-shirts that I am a proud owner of, so there wasn't anything in my external guise to suggest that I was a quizzer. In fact, I was in lemming-wear (ie: business formals, which makes all people look exactly the same). My completely perplexed and clueless countenance must have suggested to him that I wasn't going through the same pangs of face recognition that he was, so he finally suggested helpfully "You did the un-maad open quiz this year in IIMB, and the college quiz last year". Now both of the above are inexorable truths and I made no attempt to gainsay them. This was far better than a naive 6-year old me running up to Kamalhassan and saying I was a big fan of his when I couldn't possibly have named even two of his movies. This chap at least got 2 basic facts about me right.

I continued mumbling some nonsense and he continued with more helpful hints in a seeming attempt to re-jig my memory. "You, Mukka and the other guy did the quiz together I believe" (Whoa, I always thought Udups wa the most famous quizzer of the 3 of us, but seemingly not). I finally found my voice and retorted with "No, I remember doing the quizzes of course, but I didn't know I was this famous".

An awkward silence followed that remark. That sounded somewhat biggety I know. But it IS spooky to be recognized in far away Mumbai, mind you, where I am as yet a nobody (of course, this is a somewhat presumptuous corollary of assuming I am a 'somebody' in Bangalore to begin with). And then, before I could ask who he was, he was off in a flash. An apt ending for a brief 42 second interlude in my otherwise mundane Mumbai existence. Of course in a parallel universe, instead of the random guy, it'd been some cute chick, and we would have ridden off into the sunset, but this'll have to do for now.

C'est la vie. For now, I am going to believe I actually am famous. At least in my own surreal world.

Blog FAQ

A response to some of the frequently asked questions (D-oh) that have come in my direction in this blog's short existance

1. Why is your blog so Europhile?
A: Because I am Europhile. Okay ?

2. No seriously, it appears that even if you get to writing a post on a meal in a Bangalore darshini, it would still have Euro-centric allusions. Why ?
A: Okay, it's like this. My life is not as exciting as yours. But when I was on exchange, I was almost arrested (twice), spent a night like a hobo on a footpath, got spaced out, nearly got into a shoot-out, got mugged, got stuck in quicksand, snowstorms, participated in a country's first democratic revolution, while meanwhile playing for their Under-21 football team (okay a couple of those may be made up, but you get the drift). But in the past one year, when compared to stuff before, it is like Vinod Kambli's latter career as opposed to his earlier years. And you will agree that the above are somewhat more blog-worthy than "I traveled by local train to office today instead of bus". Yes, that's why I write about year old stuff. Moreover, i did not blog a year back, and hence I'm making up for lost time.

3. Does that mean that since you did not blog for the last 24 years, you will now make up for lost time by blogging about 24 years of trash?
A: Hmm, I didn't think of that, but now you're giving me ideas. And you know how my memory is!

4. Ugh, not that memory thing again.
A: Look, was the Monagesque article blog-worthy or not? What about the Oktoberfest one? If historical articles are fished out from the closet, I guarantee they will have some level.

5. Why is your blog called atulyab? Isn't Monkee either your name or your family's surname or something ?
A: No it isn't. In spite of the universal popularity of the nickname "Monkee" in both IIM Bangalore and RV, that's not really my name. I was christened Atulya Bharadwaj by my parents and my birth certificate still swears by that name. So get used to it. Swalpa adjusht maadi.

6. You seem to dislike shopping
A: You catch on fast, don't you ?

7. I am a female, I am smart, funny, nice, and I share the same interests as you. Will you marry me?
A: You catch on fast, don't you ? Hey seriously, where were you all this while ?

8: Do you have any questions for us?
A: You're kidding right? I've outgrown the age where I attend final placements and needed to answer such questions.

More as and when needed.

Introducing

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's common man rang the chants on a quiet morning in an Engineering college in Mysore Road, Bangalore. The world had witnessed the birth of it's latest superhero. And this superhero would not be a radioactive spider, nor a mutant, nor a half-alien, half-pigeon, half-Inca, half-meteorite monster. In fact, there was nothing special at all about this superhero. He was scrawny, short, bespectacled and was as noticeable as just another peanut in a bowl of peanuts *.

Little wonder then that he was called "Common man". The nomenclature was given by a certain friend of the author (let's call him, for want of a better name, Co-dee). So what unusual ability did he possess that earned him the "common man" appellation in the first place. Well, it was his uncanny ability to turn up exactly at the scene when something big was about to happen. Whether the class babble mouth was about to announce some juicy bit of gossip to his/her best friend, whether some random riots were about to break out, or if anything newsworthy was about to happen, somehow he was there. It was in this uncanny ability that he stood out like a diamond in a bowl of peanuts *. The similarities he shares with the eponymous RK Laxman comic character played no small part in being given the appellation.

So given his tendency to (unknowingly) prognosticate interesting or cool events, it was somewhat inevitable that he would have a lot to raconteur about. At least a lot to blog about. And that is what promises to follow in (a lot of) blog posts.

With that we conclude the pilot episode, and move on to the real stuff.

Post Script: One of my friends was in a Hari to comment that a lot (actually he said 'all') of my blog posts have largely been rants of various sorts, which is a very accurate observation. I don't see what the problem with that is. Scott Adams made his living from the same. Marvin the Paranoid Android would not be the most lovable character from H2G2 if he ranted any less. Ditto for Bender, Futurama. But point taken. Common man's adventures, at least the early ones, promise to be a lot less 'rant'y. Which doesn't mean we're talking 'Happy Days' but more like 'Family Guy'

* Credit to the same Co-dee for the very unusual similes

Common man and the porn stars

Common man was having the time of his life. Well, there was the little incident in the morning when the huge German hunk tried to mug him of his money, followed by the scuffle, fistfight, brawl and chase sequence through the back alleys of München's red light district, and then also the other incident where the burly security guards mistakenly thought he was an arsonist and attempted to bayonet him, but apart from that, he was having a wonderful day.

As far as reasons for the above go, he was getting in touch with his hedonistic side in a bierzelt on the last day of Oktoberfest. He was muttering quiet praises to King Ludwig I and Queen Therese in particular, and fat Germans in general, for initiating this famous celebration of bacchanalian revelry. Of course, the Weißbier laden kegs being dished out by the Löwenbräu-Festhalle tent he was in was hardly potent enough to cause any level of inebriation. He was currently on a greater high from roast chicken than the beer itself. Anyways, it was impossible not to be taken in by the festive atmosphere in the midst of all the dirndl and lederhosen clad revelers. Never mind that he had to trip and trek his way to his table through all the Bierleichen (literally 'beer corpses') dotting his path back outside.

One of his fellow travelers in a bout of what would be described as 'chool' in Kannada, or as 'geela' in IIMB, decided to shoot voyeur snaps of some German bombshells, who were somewhere midway between a polka and a stupor (both drunken induced of course). While Common man mused about exactly how much of that watered down Weißbier would it take to knock someone out this badly, his co-traveler went on a clicking frenzy at a rate that was the photographic equivalent of Shahid Afridi's batting.

Of course, all stories have to have a twist. The twist in this one was that his antics were soon discovered by the German bombshells in question and (even more worryingly) by their German chaperons as well. Common man geared up to do what would have been wisest under the circumstances; ie: run, but before he could, 12 German men and women surrounded them, waving those giant kegs in their direction. To his utter surprise, they were not in the least offended or angry about the Peeping Tom. In fact, they seemed positively thrilled. "You photo me, I photo you" was what one of them managed to mumble through his inebriated stutter. Before he and his friends realized it, the report of 12 camera flashes rang clear through the cool October air, this time with the German bombshells draped all over them, "A sure improvement over standard L square-Romanov and bad Punjabi music fare" observed Common Man with glee. "Why are they being so nice to us. Shouldn't they be pissed off?" asked one of his friends, in a mixture of 3 Indian languages, so that the Germans didn't understand. Pat came the reply from Common Man "Just enjoy yourself while it lasts" in 3 more languages.

Just as Common Man and his friends were about to take leave of their new found German buddies, one of the girls, who was giggling continuously through the last 7 minutes, stepped forward and gave him a visiting card. The quick dialogue exchange followed.
Common Man: Danke schon
German girl: Giggle, giggle
Common Man: Auf wiedersehen
German girl: Giggle, giggle
Common man sees the contents of the visiting card and pupils dilate in horror.
German girl: Giggle, giggle

For in the card, all it said was "www.content suppressed.de The best party site in town". Now come on, every guy past puberty knows what a 'party site' is. With pictures of him clicked by 12 pissed off and drunken digital cameras who were proprietors of some smut site does not cause a lot of quietude. Common Man felt like a killer standing with a gun in his hand over a corpse that he did not shoot, if you know what I mean.

The mood was sombre in the Eurocity ride back to Paris. Words like 'morph', 'voyeur', 'porn site' wafted through their minds like the smell of a freshly fried mackerel in a Goa beach shack. Once back home in Bretagne, neither Common Man nor his friends had the courage to go see this site that the card announced. It was a week later (a week in which he cursed München, Bayern München and all München related topics in general) , while chatting with a female friend and he mentioned the incident. After she "Lol'ed and smileyed for some 10 minutes, all she had to say was, "face it. Why would anyone want to see your pictures on the net, even if morphed". This unremarkable stating of the obvious was the epiphany that he needed. After expeditiously extracting the card from it's hiding place and entering the rogue URL, he was indeed directed to this 'party site'.

"Welcome to the best party site. We home deliver confetti, balloons, birthday cakes and all party related paraphernalia in the München urban district" proclaimed the site in 6 different languages. THAT was all. No porn, no smut, not even a picture of the ones he had supposed were the "stars" of the site. Gah, Common man was actually trifle disappointed. But he heaved the proverbial sigh of relief. If it hadn't been early morning, he could have ended the story by riding off into the sunset.*

Epilogue: Common man has now learned to run as fast as his feet can take him every time his co-travelers start photographing subjects indiscreetly. Who knows, maybe the next time, they really would actually be running a party (smirk) site.

* Credits are in order for Dorky Guffaw who was the first to do that trick.

Of Cinderella, Brontitall and other arbit stuff

On second thoughts, there is one thing in the world more despicable (for the gentlemen) than buying clothes. (Refer earlier blog post for the context). It's buying shoes.

I mean, seriously. Usually men have it easy in this area. All formal shoes come in one of two designs- black or brown, which means even my colour blind self has no quandaries in that department. Hawaii chappals come with a level of standardization that would have made the Ford Model T proud. And when it comes to buying sports shoes, I adopt a Dickie Bird signaling out-like pose pointing my finger forward at some random exhibit in the shop, which the shopkeeper gladly packs up. In fact, if the Bernini sculptures referenced in Dan Brown's 'Angels and Demons' were as unequivocal in pointing at the right direction as I am, Robert Langdon might have saved many more cardinals and archbishops.

No, that's not the demon I'm talking about. Some quirk of fate compelled me to go buy Kolhapuri chappals for myself, the occasion being a cousin's wedding. No disrespect to the cousin being referenced here, I mean she's a real darling and all that, but being made to buy Kolhapuri chappals reminded me of the cricketer in Monster.com's Stuck in the wrong job ad series. I simply didn't fit there. Helpful hints from well meaning relatives like "You live in Linking Road, the happening place for shopping, you won't have problems" didn't help neutralize my cold feet.

Another twist of fate found me on a Saturday afternoon in Pune in the company of two good friends, a cuplord and a half-naxal, half-commie. After some wise counsel with myself, I decided that the half-naxal, half-commie, would have an undoubted advantage when it came to shopping, by virtue of being a female, and furthermore, by virtue of being a localite. In my own version of the on-site off-shore global delivery model, I suggested outsourcing the buying act to her. She jumped on to the task with the alacrity of a French youth biting off grapes from vines at a Provençal wine harvesting festival.

Anyways, cut scene to a Commercial street-esque crowded shopping street in Pune, except that this one had less parking space and more bhel puri stalls. I was herded into one of several shoe stores by the aforementioned couple, and promised that the "job" would be done soon enough. My presence was not really required there but for checking if my feet fit the infernal shoes. i would have gladly acquiesced to having had my foot chopped off for the fitting exercise if only my feet had not been so useful to me. So with Kolhapuri chappals covering most of the foreground and all of my mind space for 15 minutes, various shades of brown and various designs were being flashed in our direction before the inevitable choice had to be taken. I hope at least Cinderella and her sisters had a better time trying out shoes than I did. After taking into account my price sensitivity and the other parties' fashion sensitivity, a certain specimen was soon picked and the salesmen grunted "365" in my general direction. Co-incidentally, apart from being the number of days in a year, it was also the marked price of the aforementioned item.

At this point of time, cuplord rises to the fore with a helpful, "I am an i-banker, I know how to negotiate best, and hence also how to bargain best". In response to the shopkeeper's 365, he responded with "360. No more". The shopkeeper clearly affronted that someone should quote so high a price while bargaining refused to deal with the cuplord anymore. Cuplord was still bargaining in basis points while I decided to take matters in my own hands and quoted a "Saadé do sau" as my offer price. I have since been informed that Saadé do is not the correct Hindi term for two and a half. Apparently, inductive logic fails and adding a Saadé before every number does not yield in it's being incremented by half. The creators of the Hindi language must be sharing a quiet laugh somewhere, as their ploy of confusing non-native speakers is clearly paying rich dividends.

The next 42 seconds passed off in a breeze, and all I recollect is walking out of the store with a pair of slippers in my hands, a lighter wallet and a clearly uneasy stomach. The sound of the shop assistants sharing a hearty laugh at my (and cuplord's) expense still reverberated along with the traffic noise. Gah, who would have thought that simple wedding shopping would lead to so much trauma.

Sigh. Am I the only one who thinks that Kolhapur is going the way of the Brontitall planet and the Dolmansaxlil Shoe Corporation. (Hitchhiker's guide, for dummies). For my own wedding, I must seriously take up on Watsan's suggestion of getting married in my usual IIMB attire (ie: white T-shirt, faded shorts and Hawaii chappals).

When in Rome, do as Bill Bryson does

The gist of this post is going to be "Bill Bryson rocks". Not too much more. No humorous dialogue, no exaggerated accounts of my (mis) adventures. No. If droll wit is what you were expecting, go to http://dilbertblog.typepad.com. Or better still, read the earlier posts in this very blog!

So, why Bill Bryson? He isn't what I'd call my "favourite author" (That honour goes to Douglas '42' Adams). Why indeed is Bill Bryson the 1st author to merit a mention on this blog. Well for one, atulyab.blogspot.com set out to be a travel-oriented blog with a humorous touch (or humour-oriented blog with a travelous touch, depending on my mood!) and simply put, Bill Bryson is to humorous travelogues what Rinus Michels is to total football. Furthermore, if at all I ever get down to writing a book in this lifetime, a Bryson-esque travellogue is certainly what I'd be aspiring to write (Special reference to cuplord again for pointing out how my life was worth a book being written!)

So back to the man. This whole pipe dream of book writing was largely inspired by Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe. It has several parallels with my own life. BB undertook a 4 month backpacking tour of Europe while in the middle of college. I did my 3 month long peregrination in the middle of college too. (Of course, like BB, I did not drop out of college at the same time. Furthermore, I could identify personally with at least 15 cities covered in the book, having been there myself. Also, unlike his other works, the book is based more on his solo observations, with more focus on the cities/countries than the people in them. Again very exchange-esque.

Of course, to enjoy a Bryson, it doesn't really matter whether you have been to the place he is describing, or even whether you plan to go there at all. A strong example is Notes from a big country. It takes super talent to write a book about arbit, out of the way locations in the USA, and still make it as interesting as it was.

A final word on Bryson's magnum opus, A Short History of Nearly Everything. In Bryson's words, "It was as if [the textbook writer] wanted to keep the good stuff secret by making all of it soberly unfathomable.
– on the state of science books used within his school"
I sometimes wonder if my electronics text books were written in the same way, would I have ever made my way towards IIMB at all! Andrew Tannenbaum is probably the closest ever attempt to 'do a Bryson'.

And finally, a pic I call "Nearly everything, of a short history". Apart from the title, it shares little with the book, if at all, but is a living and breathing example of history, as seen by the Romans. In one little snap, the site of Brutus stabbing Caesar, the site of Mark Antony's speech, the Roman senate, the 1st Catholic church in Italy, also the last pagan temple, the Settimo Severo (all victory arches are invariably modeled on this) right down to Michelangelo's Palazzo Nuevo, Monumento Vittorio Emanuelle to name a few, basically 2500 odd years of Rome through the ages, all captured in one little frame. Signature stuff from Rome!

Back to the subject. Bill Bryson rocks. Full respect to Bill Bryson.
Fuller respect to the one who introduced me to Bill Bryson, the (oddly named) Barbie.

Mumbai, part 1

Mumbai. A city that dazzles, surprises, fascinates... And disgusts. Usually, all at once. This post however, will attempt to do none of the above. Though it will make an earnest effort to capture some ideas (read ramblings) on the author's city of residence for the past 6 months, Mumbai. Lets just call it part 1 of n, for algebraic convenience.

One thing about his adopted city totally captured the fascination of the author. It wasn't the night life, not the Plutarch display of opulence of the city's affluent, or its antithetical squalor with which it co-existed, or its incredibly efficient local train system. It was, in fact, the city's overpowering obsession with traffic and roads.

Seriously, this actually beats the British and weather paradigm by light years. Young couples, as they cootchie-coo on Marine drive, discuss the traffic jams. Top executives begin board meetings with ways to beat the traffic on their way home from Nariman Point. Future Sachin Tendulkars and Vinod Kamblis exchange notes on the traffic as they steal a quick single in Shivaji Park. And strangers chum with each other on the Virar Fast by discussing the Worli Bandra Sea Link (which for brevity's sake will henceforth be referred to as WBSL). Oh, opportune time for the Worli Bandra Sea Link to make a dramatic entrance in the story. Never in the recorded history of mankind did a city rhapsodize so much. Not Roma with the priceless San Pietro, and certainly not Pisa and its beloved Torre Pendente, as Mumbai did with the WBSL.

"The WBSL is our deliverer from all our woes" remarked a Mumbaikars in earnest. "The WBSL is our panacea, the answer to all our prayers" remarked another localite, who was probably in more need of a exorcism than a flyover. "The WBSL will now truly make Mumbai the center of the universe" remarked another localite with practiced nonchalance. This frequent rhapsodizing about the WBSL made this author very curious about the true nature of this supposed civil engineering wonder.

Earlier this year, this author had to go to Prabhadevi, in an office he was told was superb simply "because it had a view of the WBSL". Nazareth, circa 29 AD couldn't have a more upbeat misc-en-scene about its newly arrived messiah as Mumbai did just now. All along the way, his co-passengers were constantly chanting "WBSL, WBSL" in a manner that would shame the most fervent Hare Krishna member. His curiosity piqued, and by now expecting a giant 18 lane flyover with Bentleys plying on them, with gorgeous cheerleaders cheering them on, the 1st thing he did on descending in front of the office was ask his co-passenger (who we shall call FOTBW), "So where is the WBSL?".

FOTBW raised her little finger and pointed towards a construction crane in the sea, where it was unglamorously flanked by 4 half complete concrete pillars. It was from a scene not out of place in modern day Beirut. 4 half complete pillars and a seemingly abandoned construction crane. THAT is the WBSL. THAT IS ALL the WBSL is about! At least for now.

The author wasted no efforts to ridicule the hype that went about this WBSL thing for the next few months. But it seemed that the God poetic justice had a sense of humour. Or maybe he was from Mumbai. Come October, he had to shift offices, and guess where his new office was. Yes, in fact it was facing the very same WBSL he always ridiculed, which by now had grown from 4 half built pillars to 8 half built pillars, and continued receiving paeans like never before. Like Coleridge's albatross, it always raises its ugly head where I can see it and like the rising sun in Japan, its always there to see, whether or not you like it.

Apparently, he is not the only one. A half-commie, half-naxal friend of his, also had a misfortune of having an office facing this "wonder of man-made creation". Apparently, in her line of work (related to infrastructure), people are sent to this office as a punishment to remind them of the lousy job infra is doing in the country. To add insult to injury, one also has to witness devotees of the WBSL with their teary-eyed "Oh WBSL, WBSL, save me".

C'est la vie.

PS: All cities, flyovers and people mentioned in the story are real. Everything else is grossly exaggerated.

Of clothes shopping and terrorists Part 2

Monte Carlo, Monaco, November, 2006

Atulya was a proud young man. A sworn formula 1 fan since childhood, he stood at Casino square ogling at the most famous spot of real estate in the sport. Also at the expensive cars. Uh, and then also at the hot women (okay, you got me there).

On his way to Gare de Monaco-Monte Carlo (to non-Francophiles, that’s the railway station) after a walk along the Monaco Grand Prix circuit, our hero decides to take a walk up to Grimaldi palace which had the best view of Monaco. He didn’t think much of the 2 cops suspiciously tailing him. Only while crossing the road, did a cop catch Atulya’s attention with some elaborate gestures coupled with some very rapid French. Our protagonist believed the cop was either engaged in an elaborate Monagesque mating ritual or was telling him not to jaywalk. Choosing not to antagonize him, Atulya responded with a non-committal “Bonsoir. Merci beaucoop. Au revoir” before setting off. Apparently, the cops weren’t done. Atulya was puzzled. That combination of French phrases usually got him what he wanted. Even in Germany! Why the hell wouldn’t this Monagesque cop get away, he thought with mild irritation as he turned around.

Somewhere around this time, Atulya realized the cop meant business. He wasn’t sure what exactly tipped him off, but it was probably the firearm the cop had aimed at his head. Once he put the proverbial “life flashing by his bespectacled eyes” away, Atulya sought to exonerate himself from whatever this Monagesque cop thought he had done (Isn’t Monagesque a cool word. I shall make it a point to use it several times in this story. In fact, I think I shall adopt citizenship of Monaco, so that I can refer to myself as “Monagesque”. Anyways, back to the story, which will henceforth be presented in dialogue format).

Monagesque cop: (With gun still aimed earnestly at Atulya’s head) Quelle nationalité êtes-vous?
Atulya (somewhat stunned): Je suis Indienne.
MC (looking a little relieved): Vouz passeport, s’il vouz plait?
A: (Somewhat relieved) D’accord (Then rummages in backpack)
MC: (Screaming) NON, non, non, non, non, Attendez.
A halts in his tracks, petrified. The cold November night air didn’t help either.
MC: Some very rapid French
A: (Somewhat confused) Pardon? Je ne comprendres pas
MC: (In a horrible French accent which reminded A of the Pink Panther) Aye veel tache you passeporret meyeselff (Then bends down, never taking his eye, or gun off A at any time, and very slowly grabs A’s passport out of the bag)
MC: (leafs through the passport for more than 5 minutes as if it were the latest Superman comic before finally saying) Monsieur, C’est Anglais.
A (huh?): huh?
MC: N’est pas comprendrez *
A(repeats like an idiot): N’est pas comprendrez
MC and A stare at each other for a minute before A decides to break the ice.
A: Parlez vous Anglais?
MC (Hesitatingly): Oui, en peu. (Then continues like Pink Panther). Aye donnt onderstained you passeporrt. All its in Anglais. What ees you nayme, you day off birrth, and oll deetayls of you passeport. And vot ees you doing in Frronce ?
A: I can help translate. Then reading off the passport- Ici mon nom, ici mon pere nom, C'est mon jour de naissance, c'est mon lieu de naissance. And I am an exchange student in Brest, Bretagne.
MC is very decidedly noting all this in a little notebook, never taking the gun off A’s head. And after a deliberately practiced double-take): Why Brest ? Is that even a real place?
A is very relieved since he thinks the ordeal is over, but MC relentlessly holds on to A’s passport. A sophisticated looking walkie-talkie surfaces from MC’s pocket who then flags down a passing patrol car and he whispers something to them. Now there are 3 MC’s. 3 guns and a very very petrified A.
MC (clears his throat as if about to make a dramatic announcement, and then speaks to walkie talkie): Rapid French, rapid French Interpol rapid French rapid French Al-Qaeda, rapid French more rapid French.

Whatever colour was remaining in A’s face drained at the import of the words he heard. Even his bench mates in engineering college, with their weird look-alikes and death jokes, could not have suggested a more ridiculous scenario than the one the Monagesque (see, here I go again) cop just did. MC then goes on to give the man at the other end of the walkie-talkie all details of A’s life which he could glean from A’s passport- which owing to A’s limited French, and MC’s even more limited English, wasn’t too much.
Interpol man: Rapid French, rapid French. Rapid French, rapid French
MC: Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui, oui
Interpol man: Rapid French, rapid French. Rapid French, rapid French
MC: Non, non, non, non, non, non

This pattern continued for some 10 more minutes. With the 4 guns still trained against A’s head, it felt more like 10 years. Mind you, this whole incident takes place right next to what would have been the starting grid of the Monaco GP. Normally this would cause multiple orgasms for most F1 enthusiasts, but these scenes are best enjoyed without 4 guns aimed at your head. By now, A had had enough time to invoke the names of most of the 330 million strong Hindu pantheon, at least the ones whose names he could remember.

While A continued his lamentations and MC finally concluded his recriminations over the walkie-talkie, and an apologetic looking MC (with his even more apologetic looking walkie-talkie) gravely walks up to A: Aye am sourry. Eet seems you are not the terrowreest vee wear luking four.
A: Hello? Excuse me. You thought I was a terrorist? From what angle do I look like a terrorist to you? I object to this gross misrepresentation of your powers as a Monegasque cop to question unsuspecting tourists of their inalienable rights to roam this country as they please.

Of course, A didn’t really say the last dialogue. In fact, he was running as fast as his legs would take him to Gare de Monaco-Monte Carlo to the first train that would take him back to the (relative) safety of his friend Mukka’s place in Nice.

Post script: A politely told the shop assistant that he wouldn’t actually “grow any taller”, who was rather amused. A was amused too. He was more amused in Shillong when his very kind host asked if he was older than his sister or not (he is in fact 7 years younger), but what the hell, between being mistaken for a terrorist, and a growing schoolboy, he’d take the latter.

PS: All characters in the story are most certainly real, but the events may be (for lack of a better word) "somewhat exaggerated".
*- Please pardon spelling mistakes in French. My French is apparently good enough for small talk with Monagesque cops, but not good enough to spell correctly.

Of clothes shopping and terrorists Part 1

Bangalore, November, 2007
Atulya Bharadwaj was engaging in the most despicable act known to mankind.
Buying clothes
(Please note: by “man”kind, the author here refers to “Man” kind only, not the proverbial “mankind”, Feminists, please excuse. Go read “Y the last man” or something)

So the hero of this story, Atulya Bharadwaj was conned into the most despicable act for a man- buying clothes, which were to be worn to a cousin’s wedding. Now there are several reasons (most of them owing to genetic deficiencies) why Atulya considers buying clothes so despicable.

a) Being colour blind, the greens, the reds and the browns were like Chinkies to him. ie: They all looked the same. And somehow every designer since antiquity seemed to believe that these are the colours all men’s clothes should come in.
b) His somewhat short and lean stature meant that nothing ever fit.

So back to the clothes shopping. Point a) above was being sorted out by his helpful and ever patient mother, offering helful fashion advice such as “No that is greenish brown, this is brownish green, and the other one is more burgundy” (As if it made any difference to him). But that still left genetic deficiency b). There is nothing in the world that could sort that out. And just like F.Alonso and the McLaren team management, they just didn’t fit.

To exacerbate Atul’s growing impatience, a demented but well-natured shop assistant offered some blindingly useful advice to his mother. “Buy this maydum (Madam said in a way only Kannadigas can), when your son grows little taller, it will fit him”.

Now THAT is where Atul drew the line. Looking younger than your age is one thing, but a virile, young 24 year old lad being confused for a pre-pubescent kid is another. Atulya instantly exploded in a barrage of invectives against the life, the universe and everything in general. To further add ignominy to the situation, our protagonist forgot that he was back in his hometown and spoke in Hindi to the assistant.

In the midst of this mildly comical scene, our hero’s mind harks back to a scene which occurred nearly a year ago, when (as being mistaken as someone younger/more harmless goes) the opposite happened.

Flashback continues in part 2

It's...

Let me begin by repeating the title. It's...
And a hearty 'K' to one and all.

So... it seems I have arrived. At least the blog has arrived (Le blog est arrive, for those of you who don't understand English).

Sadly, monkee.blogspot.com and simian.blogspot.com were taken, so I had to take drastic measures (such as using my real name).

After half a decade of resisting the advances of the "blogging world", of procrastinating, pretending to be tech-illiterate, and general NED, I have made my entrance (please feel free to add sound and light effects, artificial smoke, screaming cheerleaders to mark this momentuous occasion). Many thanks to the several dozen people who kinda goaded me into this (special thanks to the one who said "Your life is interesting enough to have a book written about it").

So, let the good times roll.

PS: For those of you who didn't understand the significance of the title, you really should start watching Monty Python.