The Curious Incident of the....

It's the talk of the town! Everyone is raving about it!
Recently unveiled, it isn't really the first of its kind, but a brilliant emulation of its predecessor. Newly renovated with sparkling clean tiles and vivid colours, it's the all new Air Conditioned Library!
In the past 2 weeks, you've witnessed so many walk through those glass doors. Everyone is in awe of it. How long can you contain your curiosity? Not long! What is the experience truly like? You desire first-hand knowledge.

Thus, on one fine day, you take the endeavour. It's late evening and you enter. Someone's even courteous enough to hold the door open for you, even though you don't quite know him.

As you enter, people look up from their books. And they stare at you.
"How odd," you think to yourself. "I wish they wouldn't stare so!"
You wander a bit, hoping that they'll return to their work rather soon. But they don't. They continue to peer at you. It is almost as if they have forgotten all boundaries of social conduct. They aren't even making the effort to pretend that they aren't intruding on your privacy. They're openly gazing!

You move away from the gazing eyes, towards another end of the hall. As you walk, everyone looks up. Some even point directly at you and laugh!
"What's wrong with them?" you wonder. "Have they absolutely no civic sense whatsoever?"
Evidently not!


I am, meanwhile, sitting at the round table at one far end of the hall. The clock is approaching ten (or rather, my watch is approaching ten, but I'm quite sure the clock would be complying as well.") The hall shall close, as per schedule, at half past, thus I have no more than half an hour of study with me. The pressure is building, and I am concentrating harder.
Suddenly, I observe you from the corner of my eye. I look up. You've disappeared.
"Stop hallucinating!" I tell myself, but only softly, less people think I'm schizophrenic. "You have tons left to finish!"
I return to my book. Two seconds pass. Then I notice you, again from the corner of my eye. I jerk my head upwards. AHA! I saw you! I smile. You ignore my presence altogether. Customarily, I would be offended. But I take the higher ground and overlook your hostility. I rise from my seat and follow you silently. You aren't aware, for you have your back towards me. I slowly withdraw my phone from my pocket and activate the camera.
CLICK!
You did not notice. I follow further.
Click! CLICK!
How very oblivious you are!

You begin to proceed away, towards the main door, possibly offended with all the glaring eyes. En route, you pause. I'm stalking you. I pause too.
You lower your posterior and defecate on the clean floor.
Everyone is observing. Everybody laughs! You quickly finish up and are on the move again.

You wonder why we are all amused at your presence amongst us. So you're a dog! Big deal! Has no one ever witnessed a dog in the library?

The Curious Incident of The Dog In The Night-Time in The Library. Indeed!

Breakfast At KC's

It was yet another handsome Sunday morning. The air was pleasantly cool, the crows were not cawing, and there was a Sunday-Morn Silence all around as the world would sleep till 10. Everything seemed to be at its usual, but for the trees outside my window. They were unerringly where I had left them the previous evening. Indeed, they hadn't moved an inch! What is most astonishing is that they don't appear to have budged ever since my earliest recollections of them. They simply remain where they are, all the time. Almost as if it is customary of them to remain put! Hmm.. Funny business.

As is not uncommon on Sunday mornings, both beautiful and dreadful ones, college was closed, which meant that the college canteen was shut leaving me with no choice but to seek alternative establishments to provide me my breakfast. One such establishment is called KC Canteen that is located roughly 127 steps away from my hostel gate. No, I haven't counted. It is an estimate (add or subtract a thousand). And that was precisely where I headed.

As most of the world is asleep at 9 AM on Sundays, I went unaccompanied. And for a fairly similar reason, I found that the canteen (hereafter referred to as KC) was not thronging with hungry college-goers as it usually is after 10.

Now a word or two about the canteen.... sorry, KC.... before we proceed. The capacity of KC does not exceed 30, with 4 people sharing a table (unless of course 6 people gracelessly force themselves onto one), thus if you visit alone, you are likely to have to share a table with a perfect stranger (and sometimes, a far-from-perfect one). During early and odd hours, however, low occupancy may allow you to afford a table-for-four all to yourself.

And that was the privilege that was bestowed upon me on that Sunday morning, for I was able to occupy the last unoccupied table in the canteen, with all others having an occupant or two.

The waiter appeared before me, with an expression of utter boredom on his visage. He always has an expression of boredom on his face, something that is nearly as constant as the position of the trees outside my window. Hmm.. Funny business.

I placed my order. He registered and left. Though I was not witness to the same and thus could never testify it before the court of law (with a clear conscience), my instincts told me that as he departed from before me, he continued to have an expression of utter boredom on his face. And that the trees still hadn't moved. Hmm.. Funny business.

So I sat there, waiting. The wait was not long, but in the course of the next minute, something apart from the ordinary happened.

The situation is such. Since I had no company at that ghastly hour on that Sunday morning and since there isn't anything particularly brilliant or attractive about the interiors of KC, I was gazing out the windows. As if it was meant to happen, my gaze fell upon a spectacle so cinematic that it unnerved me.

From a distance, I saw the advancement of nobody short of an adversary. Affectionately christened by me as Ess Row, you can read my tribute to him here.

Having experienced much more of his expertise in the field of English since I wrote that tribute, I take the opportunity to disclose more about this great dignitary with you at this point in time.

After attending one class of his, one pleads silently within, "Why?"

After attending 10 glorious lectures by him, one drops to his knees, clasps his hands together, looks up towards the heavens and screams in pain, "Why, god, why?"

After ending the fortieth, one loses faith in god.

Mercifully, no one has had to attend beyond 30.

As I was saying, I sat there and saw the enemy draw near. The effect was cinematic. He did not seem to be approaching the entrance to KC progressively, nor gliding, skipping or hopping towards it, for that matter. He was clearly charging. Gung-Ho! His figure was looming larger by the second and whatever remains of his hair to this day, was flying in the wind. How he enlivened that effect sans hi-tech equipment or cameras, I may perhaps never acertain. Though again I have no proof of the same since the window constrained my view, it appeared to me that he was riding a horse.

Now don't begin about the absurdity of owning horses in South India. I rode nothing short of a camel, with hump and all, not more than 2 kilometers away from KC less than a month ago, thus I do not find it incredible that Ess Row should find it too arduous a task to procure a horse and trot at full speed towards his breakfast.

To recapitulate thus far, on that Sunday morning, when the trees had not budged and the waiter at KC flaunted an expression of utter boredom on his face, Ess Row stormed in full spirit towards KC on a horse.

Needless to say I looked around me and panicked. No, I did not suddenly find myself in an army on a battlefield, soon to be attacked by Ess Row “The Indomitable”. What a did discover was that there remained not a single empty table in the canteen.

And tell me now, why should a person who can not find an empty table at KC, share one with a familiar face, be it a colleague or a defenceless student?

The reasoning may or may not be logical, but as it happened, I panicked.

Without sparing a thought, or even a fraction of it, I grabbed my belongings, rose like thunder, dove towards the adjacent table and collapsed onto the bench, opposite its formerly solitary occupant, and heaved a sigh of relief.

The unsuspecting bloke, on whose privacy I had unceremoniously intruded, seemed not to be cognizant of the English Professor that approached on a horse or anything out of the ordinary and thus found my behaviour most nonconforming. This was validated by the manner in which he glared at me, as if a hyena had materialised before him out of nothingness. To the best of my faculties, under the bizarre circumstances, I avoided his look.

Meanwhile, the waiter appeared with my order where I previously sat, and placed it before empty space. Noticing that he was serving food to hot air, that was unlikely to consume or pay for it, he raised an eyebrow to the best of his ability. As it dawned upon him that the empty space had not placed the order to begin with, he sought the entity that had.

Discovering me behind him, he placed the food where it belong and, with a slightly malformed expression of utter boredom on his face, departed.

My table companion glared at the apparating hyena, as it breakfasted on South Indian food.

Somewhere in the canteen, another unsuspecting and ill-fated bloke, discovering an unsolicited breakfast date imposed upon him, pleaded silently within himself, “Why?”

Barber Blooper

Howdy all! It has jolly well been a long time, hasn't it! I do not wish to abandon you all, thus I return.
To be able to return, one needs to have something to write about.. an anecdote or a limerick.
Poor memory, an uneventful life or the sheer lack of desire comprise some of the obstacles that deny us a story to share. There are those who write as an obligation. Then again, some of us refuse to compromise on our dignity by harping on endlessly about food.
Well, today I return for I have something to say.
Did you know that New York is not the capital of the United States? Err.. no, that's not it. I digress.

A yes, Barber Blooper.
Every time we blog, we attempt to title the post with the intention of summarising the entire narration in a few words. Then again, there are those who title an entry "My Trip To Alabama" and deliberate on the Indian Independence Struggle. But as you must've guessed, I do not belong to that category of persons.

So back to Barber Bloopers.
The event occurred at.... well, the barber's. On the scene were 3 boys, say Boy 1, Boy 2 and Boy Me as well as a girl, say Girl. Here, it may be noted that Girl was (is) a scamp.
Boy 1 needed a shave. Boy 2, Boy Me and Girl, you'd be interested to know, did not. Nonetheless, they accompanied to the barber as it conveniently fell on their way home and as it is sometimes expected of people the grounds of friendship.

Thus, we entered 'Super Hairdresser', which I'd suppose to be Manipal's most frequented Men's Saloon.
The layout of the saloon is as shown.


Door 1 would be the Main Door and the remaining 3 lead to 3 enclosures where one finds a lot of hair flying around.

As we entered through Door 1, Boy 1 promptly disappeared behind Door 3 into the A/C Enclosure of the parlour. As the glass walls were tinted, we could not observe what ensued behind them. As he has gone for over a quarter of an hour, rather excessive for a simple shave, we were puzzled as to what could beget the delay, tempting us to arrive at our own wicked conclusions. That he emerged with the top 2 buttons of his shirt undone only aggravated our curiosity. That they were undone even before he had disappeared behind the door was his saving grace.

During the wait, we sat on the benches adjacent to Door 1, looking disinterested in the general administration of the saloon. Time and again, an employee would appear from one of the three doors (2,3 or 4) and ask Boy 2 and Boy Me if we desired their services, since we were utilising the bench space, the oxygen within the room and the wind from their fan, particularly ear-marked for waiting customers. The girl was never questioned as it was a men's saloon. Owing to this discrimination, she was slightly offended and would occasionally requesting a shave. For some obnoxious and unfathomable reason, none of the barbers took her seriously.

Eventually, we tired of sitting and Boy Me rose, pulled Girl through Door 2 where a rather timid-looking bloke, whom I shall call Bloke, stood by a chair, gazing at the door. Boy Me pushed Girl towards him and convincingly proclaimed that Girl wanted a shave. A short explosion of laughter emerged from Girl, which she subsequently stifled, pulled a straight face and corroborated that she indeed wanted one that very moment. Bloke smiled from ear to ear and looked embarrassed, but refused to play along with us.
Just then, a barber walked around us from behind, picked up a hand-towel and started drying Bloke's face. Bloke walked past us to the cash counter to pay.
Meanwhile, Boy Me and Girl realised their blunder and burst out of Door 1, bursting with hysterical laughter that they were unable to control.
Bloke too emerged from the door, still smiling in embarrassment and blushing a crimson red.

Today's weather forecast

Unacceptable! Absolutely unacceptable!

The climate of this town is utterly profane. Who, when, where and how authorised the mercury to soar to such extent and the humidity to haunt the life out of us? How can such terrible weather be permitted?

Call the police, summon the Union Government, appeal to the Supreme Court. There has been a serious violation of Human Rights! An entire civilisation is under threat! If that wasn’t horrid enough, I too am part of it!

Why is this grave act of torture upon innocent masses being overlooked? Why aren’t the media reporting the agony that we are being subjected to? Why has the parliament not convened to discuss measures of control? Why has this climate not been condemned by diplomats from the world over? If we debate abolition of institutions such as capital punishment that only plague individuals on moral grounds, is it not imperative to advocate a ban on weather conditions such as these? It is nothing short of top priority. Then WHY are the concerned authorities not taking initiatives?

To make it worse, clouds mock us all day. They think it is all very amusing to hang there in the sky, look grey and promising and then just leave.

What are clouds made of, I ask you? What is their most fundamental composition? What is it you say? Water, is it? Well, why don’t we see any of it?

Can one ever consume butter that wouldn’t make his cholesterol rise? Have you ever purchased an umbrella that drenches you?

Then how can clouds contain water and feign dryness? The very thought of it is preposterous. And lo behold, I am told that nothing can be done about it.

Why would anyone say such a horrid thing? Why would anyone steal from another person an inkling of hope, a drop of desire and a pinch of motivation to fight the injustices that exist around him?

Did the people of Geneva step back and watch as Hitler took over their nation and spread the wings of his autocratic strategies over the rest of the world? Did America sit silent as France attempted to steal from it the Statue of Liberty? Did Jesus’s apostles not file an FIR when the Hindus stole the Bhagvat Gita right from under them? (Kindly avoid correcting any awry contentions. I’m positively peeved.)

Then why oh why do we sit back as the climatic conditions jeer at us?

Outright blasphemy.

Journey through the Ghats

A little piece I wrote in the train en route to Udupi from Goa a few weeks back

____

An early morning or late evening ride on the Konkan route is truly magical. The clock is soon to strike 7pm and I shall soon arrive at my destination, the temple town of Udupi.
The sun has set. Dusk shall fall soon. The pines stand tall and motionless but for the occasional gust of wind. The sky appears to be overcast but isn't. The expanse neither a shade of blue, nor one of red but falls somewhere conveniently in between. The hills yonder are no more than an outline. The mist averts the eye from beholding its details. They appear a dull shade of grey.

Lush open fields here are sporadic and few. The track is abounded by evergreen forests of the Western Ghats; but this land is not unconquered, but respected and preserved.
The train crosses over the occasional meandering stream. The ocean is not distant, though invisible. The rivers unite with the sea soon after. The union is unwinessed by our eye, to which the streams disappear behind the foliage.


We cross over a stream. The water us a dark mossy green. A strong wind blows. The leaves and branches of the trees bend towards us, as if bowing in salute.

The train runs past a station. The stations here are small comprising no more than two, commonly a single platform. None can boast of much life or activity, contrasting their northern counterparts in every way.

Darkness has now fallen. The trees are now mere contours against the dark blue sky. Another stream. The water mirrors the dark blue. Every passing second brings me closer to my destination.

We enter a tunnel. We are made concious of the artificial lighting within the carrige, that had been 'over-shadowed' by the daylight all along. One feels as if one is underground. That the clock is past midnight.
We emerge. The mountain rocks are a glaring red. But the wall gradually plummets and the pines emerge and envelope the landscape yet again.




My station approaches from a distance. Soon, I shall conclude this voyage and leave behind the tranquillity one experiences in this enchanting ride.
_____________

Shanky Row : A Tribute

Today, I revive an activity in which I had lost all interest, a calling for which I had lost all passion because I, have been Inspired.

I sit presently in my English Public-Speaking class. Our assignment for the day is to introduce a famous personality. To that effect, I introduce to you a revered personage, a pioneer of Idiocy, Imperfection and Perversion, Ess Row.


Ess Row is one of the oldest members of the faculty at the Manipal Institute of Technology (The Other MIT) and most obviously so. Owing to what I can imagine would "never" qualify as one of Humanity's Top 100 Blunders of All Time, he has ended up in the Faculty of English of this esteemed institution.
As is known the world over, Indian engineers have held a reputation for their numerous deficiencies in the English Language and it is only due to the unending commitment of personalities such as our very own Mr. Row that this has been made possible. His endeavours continue in full spirit to this very day.

The Genre of English that Mr. Row "specialises" in may be classified as either old-fashioned (such as that of American Indians) or highly progressive (such as that of the very first talking buffalo.) Either way, his command on it is commendable.

The only ground on which his magnanimity suffers is a lack of sophistication for Sophistication in itself exists neither in his style, nor his vocabulary. Do not get me wrong. What I straightforwardly want to convey is that "Sophistication" does not exist in his vocabulary, as do not many other 5-10 letter words and more. But come now. Surely that is all secondary.

As far as physical appearances go, there is a striking connection between his brain and his head. While his braincells almost a similar shade of grey as that of his hair, his brain is as deficient of the former as his head is of the latter. It is truly uncanny and is perhaps symbolic of his ingenuity.

Ess Row is a charismatic speaker. Whilst before an audience, he exudes charm through his captivating mannerisms, vivid gestures (pronounced "Guess-chers") and posture, highly reminiscent of a Bronze Statue (and the finest of all, at that). As he stands there, rooted to his spot like a banyan tree, with his arms fastened to his sides (with what appears to be Superior Quality Glue), talking endlessly for hours to an end, the audience listens mesmerised (and/or snoring very very softly.)

This tribute would be incomplete without a mention of his spotless diction. Row feels that our youth is regrettably adopting the American manner if talking, a most undesirable trait. He is of the firm opinion that we should instead follow the British as our linguistic role-models. For example, when we say "What", "When", "Where" and "Why" we fall short of stressing on the 'h'. Instead, we should pronounce the same words as "fHought", "fHen", "fHair" and "fHy". Sure the "W" sounds closer to an "F" than to itself but that is how, he alleges, the british pronounce it and that is how we, i beg your pardon, fHe should too.

He is also a strict and intelligent disciplinarian. In today's class, as I approached him for permission to slip down to the men's room, he firmly said 'No' as I went to the restroom in EVERY English class and knowing that I was up to no good. How it could slip from my that I had already exhausted my Quota for Trips-To-The-Bathroom in the 2-Hour-Long English class, I fail to understand.
It didn't end there. When he asked us to volunteer to come forth and present our assignments and I stepped forward, he declined saying that I would probably deliver my bit and run away.

How, I ask, HOW did he see right through my plan? Was it so transparent after all?
My entire strategy of first, waiting for one hour of the class to get over, then requesting for permission to slip down to the loo (JUST to throw him off-track), then volunteering to deliver my speech and, having done so, before his very eyes, grabbing my bag, books and running out the door, while he sat there looking passively and feeling helpless in the entire affair for surely it was beyond his power to cancel my attendance or deduct marks from my internals, had I the audacity to simply run away.
What a smart fellow!

This brings us to the culmination of a glowing tribute to a person who truly deserves every word of praise (for Acclamation and Commendation are very big words).... Mr. Ess Row!

Of Ecology, Nomads And Innuendos

Why, just today I had made a sneaky attempt at luring my Electronics professor into an argument over how Hydel Power Plants were being erected at the cost of destruction of the entire ecology of a river and how human domination over Mother Nature wasn't a part of Lord's plan for us. Him being an ordinary selfish mortal of an engineering background wouldn't flinch beyond calling it 'a price to pay for development.' I would, au contraire, accuse him of being in alliance with 'A League Of Extraordinarily Apathetic Gentlemen' and proceed to enumerate one million and one ways that nature would revenge those that belonged to this Anti-Environmental Mafia. But initiating such a debate wouldn't be a cake-walk. And it was imminent for the success of my mission to find a way.
I thought I'd lure him with a plate of Cheeses. Only, I didn't carry my plate of cheeses to class that day. So I thought of an alternative approach. I would decoy him with a technical question. And right when he was least expectant of an outburst, I would present one. It would be no less than accusing him of mere scandal. And thus, I posed a cautiously well-framed question.


The cautiously well-framed question was 'put off' until he 'delved further into that area'. That "co-incidentally" did not happen.
Did he see right through my inquisition? Or did someone prompt him into dismissing me before I could lash my whip at him? A conspiracy, no doubt. But I was warded off.

Not disheartened, I looked ahead and eagerly anticipated my very first class of Environmental Sciences ever. Expectations were high. Aspirations unlimited. Finally, I was to be face to face with another being who would reciprocate my firm convictions against the advancement of technology at the cost of Ecological damage. If he were to suggest anything to the contrary, he would be failing at his duty, cheating himself and betraying those, few but loyal, that battled their own kind for the good of this planet and all that it harbours (besides us).
Needless to say, I was disappointed. The fellow knew no more about the environment than he did about Madonna's lipstick collection. Possibly, a lot less.
What he was good at, in fact, was Dramatics and elocution. The next 45 minutes, he spent reading off senseless statistics and meaningless numbers from the screen with such zest and sensation, one was convinced his classes had been Produced and Directed by either Alfred Hitchcock or Ekta Kapoor.
His elocution skills must have been marvellous for if none other, he had convinced at least himself of his supreme knowledge and expertise in his 'area of specialisation'.

His pupils did not feel deprived of reason to babble and chortle at him. He scarcely felt concious of himself but occasionally would ask us why we were roaring, put his hands dangerously close to his pelvis, raise them consequently (palms facing outwards) and ask "I'm okay na?", only sending us into another fit of sniggers.

He made constant references to what he had told us in 'yesterday's class.' On numerous occasions, I felt ever so tempted to correct him that we had necer had a class 'yesterday' to begin with. My inner wisdom prevented me from shattering his notions of lectures that had never taken place at all. And thank god too, for as it dawned upon me soon after, he had been all the while referring to a lecture he had delivered to us almost a year ago (three days to be precise) that I had missed.

I was only just about to curse him for being such a grave disappointment, a dimwitted fool and a bore that a rather explicit illustration of three men, unclad from head-to-toe holding up spears whilst exhibiting their genitalia appeared before us on the screen. Needless to say, some gasped, some one or two fainted while most, sooner or later, guffawed. As if that weren't enough, he too yelled "Yes! Yes! I wanted you all to see...."
(and passionately gesturing with his arms, mind and soul towards the innocent naked men on the screen, he approached the climax)
".... THIS is what we all were...."
(adopting a grand pose, holding up an imaginary spear of his own and thrusting his precious pelvis forward, boomed....)
"....HUNTERS!"

Our lungs collapsed in laughter.

Fast Car

Thus, I find myself back in college. A hectic life had beckoned me, I had thought. I wasn't wrong, but note entirely correct. A hectic and dull one did. Chemistry cycle is sheer boredom, I have realised. I can't say I'm thankful.
It's fantastic to meet up with everyone though. I'm awfully grateful for my friends here.



This evening, I took the monumental task of unpacking as well as putting up all that I had brought to ornate my room, and was thus pretty exhausted.
Just then did my room-mate request my company to the market. In no position to walk, any more than the length of a tennis-racquet, I hastily declined.
Having decided that it would be appropriate to take my first meal of the day (dinner), I escaped with a friend to the neighbourhood Tapmi (Tammy) Mess. As we were returning, I had taken but one step towards the gate when he cried "Stop! Let's go for a walk first." As if in the know that I was only about to protest, he quickly continued the conversation in a rather casual tone devoid of any hint of accusation, yet so full of it saying "Boy did you eat a lot today. We're almost quits for a change."
I had only pointed out that he had had 5 chappatis (four was the exact number, as it turned out) and I, only 3 that he retorted "But you also took a Gobi Manchurian. Gosh, it was absolutely flowing in oil, wasn't it."
So we walked.



Meanwhile, I had a most delightful beginning to the semester.
The day commenced with a Math class. Hon'ble professor walked in and began to call the roll.
"251... 252..." he went on and I listened patiently. How long ago, it felt, since I'd answered a roll call. How long it had been since I was to raise my arm to 279 and call out "Yessah."

"261.... 262.... 263...." he went on and I called off their names on my fingers, seeing how well I could connect numbers with people. Not too well, it turned out.

And it was round about at 268 that she walked in, dressed in a charming outfit. "May I come in sir?" she interrupted. I was stunned.
No, it wasn't love at 3,563rd sight. Her clothes were jangling.
"How particularly odd" I thought to myself.
"Her dress is jangling." I told myself.
"Yes, I know!" myself told me. "I can hear just about as well as me, thank you very much."
"Why is her dress jangling?" I asked myself.

Before myself could respond, another entity entered the door and the massive population of that class-room was increased by one.
But 'one' did not look as he had the previous evening.
"That's funny! No more than 16 hours ago, he had not hair as short as that." you-know-who told you-know-what.
Before the latter could snap back with a "Yes, I know wise-guy. I was right there in you, remember?" I snapped out of my thoughts.

Teacher : 301.... 302.... 303.... 304....

Me and Myself in Chorus : Uh-oh!

Land de incompréhensibles

Some anti-social elements that think not well of humanity may assert that vis-à-vis I am about to share, I am to some extent or other, be blamed. But don’t you believe a word they say. Mark their expressions of astonishment. Note the disbelief in their laughter. Is it not mere pretence? Disregard their counter-allegations. They attempt to deceive you. What they have against me, I cannot say. But what I am about to tell you is unbiased and true.

Manipal truly is a land of incomprehendibles. The waiters, the peons, the newspaper boys; they know not what they say. Nor do we (know what they say.) In an attempt to adopt one million South Indian languages that they wish to preserve along with Hindi, they have succeeded in developing a hybrid that we, helpless migrants, fail to grasp and are consequently victimised.

Is there a different purpose behind developing this alien dialect? Is it to cheat us? To deceive us? I do not know.

I shall recount a few occasions during which gave birth to my allegations.

Incident one, two and three occurred at an Indian restaurant titled Sheela. Interestingly, anything that you may order here takes over 20 minutes to cook, inclusive of “Maggi’s 2-minute noodles”. Well, everything excluding “Idlis” and “Vadas”, which are served quicker than water.

If that isn’t enough to make you sit-up and take notice, there’s more.

The dishes listen on the Indian menu may sound conventional enough. But do not be fooled. Look at them carefully. Are they exactly the same? What is that you say? They aren’t? I didn’t think so myself.

The “Navrattan Korma” is conveniently re-titled “Mixed Vegetable Korma.” Any ignorant bystander would not have noticed the difference. But I am not to be bamboozled. Are the 2 dishes exactly the same? Or has the original recipe endured mutation so as to render it different in look, make, flavour and what not?

We are not ignorant bystanders. So we do what is expected of all those who are not ignorant bystanders. We hail a waiter and ask him “What does this contain?” And it is there that we err.

Under usual circumstances, you would listen attentively to every word he utters. You would jump for joy for every ingredient that you savour that has been retained, and adopt a look of grief and anguish for those that have been omitted in the preparation. As for those despicable constituents that you despise but have been included, you pucker up your nose, put on a frown, stick out your tongue and go “Blech!”, while spontaneously relieving your face of the nasty expression so that neither it becomes permanent upon your face (should the wind change its direction just then) nor the waiter becomes convinced that you are impolite.

But such is not the case in Sheela. For under the first 3 circumstances, the following ensued.

Incident One:

Me : What does the “Mixed Vegetable Korma” contain?

Him : *Mumble Mumble*

And I looked at him, expressionless as a goat, courteously waited for him to finish, turned to the person next to me and….

Me : (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident Two:

Me : How long will a plate of Maggi take for preparation?

Him : *Mumble Mumble*

……..

Me : (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident Three:

Me : Do you have any pineapple juice?

Bonus : Incident Four

Me : Boss, could we have the bill please?

(Five minutes elapse)

Me : Boss, we’d asked for the bill.

(Seven minutes later)

Me : Boss, bill please? It’s been ages.

Him : *Mumble Mumble……… Grumble*

Me: (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident 5 was fairly recent.

After 3 phone-calls, I had managed to convince the News paper agency that I, in fact, did not want newspapers delivered to my room for the three weeks during which it was to be uninhabited.

On the evening of the 3^rd call, a boy magically appeared at my doorstep with a stack of bills in his hand and a plastic bag containing money and proceeded to hand me one from the stack.

Doubtful of the fact that I had received merchandise (in the form of newspapers) worth the Rs. 200 advance that I had already paid, a perception that the boy echoed, I proceeded to clarify with him that I had absolutely no intentions of paying a further advance to him for two reasons, one that I had discontinued subscription and two, that I did not plan to revive it in the future (for that particular daily).

The boy peered at me in a most queer manner, as if I was barmy, and proceeded to mumble something that I did not understand. At that point, I was pretty sure that he was somehow or the other related to that waiter at Sheela.

I did, however, manage to catch a numerical figure in his oration, I believe a sum of 60 rupees.

Though sensitive of the fact that he was simply a functionary of the agency, a paid employee, sent out to do his work that he was expected to complete, and that he had not bargained for customers like my royal highness when he took up his position, I refused to be cheated, however meagre the amount involved may be.

I thus began to present him with evidences in support of the fact that I should not have to pay a further advance. And to that effect, I began to dig through the clutter on my study table, which at the time resembled the aftermath of a horrific calamity with the intentions of discovering and presenting to him a bill bearing the date I had paid the advance. The expedition was a failure, for I was pretty sure I had thrown it out ages ago, but I hoped that the boy, who now stood impatiently at the door, would give up on me and walk away, leaving it to the agency to negotiate with me. He continued to look at me as if I was loony.

My room-mate meanwhile had lain on his bed with an over-pronounced smirk on his face. After 10 minutes of excavations, as I stood gasping for some oxygen, he sniggered “He’s not asking you for any money, he simply wants to pay you your balance.”