Cal is hard and hot and I hate it. I just lost my temper, and came so close into getting into a fist fight with a large sardar. I went to buy Bournvita from a store close to my house last evening, and this morning when I opened it, the seal was broken and the powder was solid. So I went to return it but the storekeeper said it wasn't his problem once it left the store. I started to reason with him and then arguing with him. In the end I got so mad I chucked the open Bournvita bottle to the floor with the stuff spilling all over. The sardar got furious, I thought he was going to punch me. He started shouting at me, I shouted back. Finally I said, "Oops, I dropped it, I'm sorry" and left the store. As I was leaving, he tells me that this shows how uneducated I am. I told him that he's what's wrong with this country. I think I was expecting him to just take it back and replace it or give me my money back. I can't remember the last time I was so mad at someone. I think I just wanted to be mad.
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Monday, August 01, 2011
"Carolineeee, You Danceee" or The Great American Road Trip Part 1
The People: Jenny, Michelle, Matt, and Maity
The Car: 2001 Lexus CS 300
The Trip: Washington DC to Malibu, CA
The Distance: ~3600 miles
The Duration: 10 Days (28 May - 6 June)
The day before departure, I had a peculiar sense of foreboding, like this trip would be star-crossed for some reason. The signs were ubiquitous. Matt's stomach was in ruins. Jenny's trip from NYC to Washington DC on the eve of our journey was marred by the towing of her car and a traffic ticket; and, of course, the pleasant city traffic of New York meant that by the time she reached DC on Thursday night, she was haggard and had sacrificed dropping in on the Amish of Pennsylvania. Michelle, who was supposed to bus in late evening on Friday, suffered the curse of banking and stayed in to finish banking stuff till 3 in the morning, missed her bus, bought an expensive train ticket for 5 in the morning, missed that train, and finally embarked on a 6.30 train for DC. While Michelle's delay was a blessing in subtle disguise - we got to drink beers, sleep in late and play Settlers of Catan into the night - I was worried about the inauspicious beginning to our trip. A fear that, and I thank the Gods here, turned out to be quite unnecessary.
Day 1
So, on Friday the 28th, after stocking up on snacks and stories, we picked up Michelle and her massive sleeping bag from the metro and started our 3600 mile journey to The Pacific. Day One aim was to get as close to New Orleans as possible. We headed west on the dreaded I-66, the scourge of all interstates, and then headed south on I-81, passing through Virginia, the tornado ravaged lands of West Virginia, and finally Tennessee, where we stopped for a bite in the university town of Knoxville.
Knoxville was surprising. It was hip. Something I did not associate with the South. Perhaps because it's an university town that it felt like it was really hip and youthful. Perhaps we only saw that part of the city. We walked through the central plaza, almost an European type piazza with fountains and Frisbees. We walked through a rather curious sculpture garden where we got our first taste of Southern modern art. We made it a game of guessing the prices of some of the works. Dinner was at an upscale joint on the corner of the piazza. I had a Atlanta brew called Deepwater 420, a really sweet and hoppy beer that felt like it was brewed with saltwater. Matt had the most amazing bisque. Jenny and I shared a rather interesting gourmet Mac'n'Cheese.
As we left Knoxville, we decided to drive for a couple of hours and get as close to New Orleans as possible, which was still about 500 miles away. We decided to stop at Chattanooga, TN a little border town by Alabama. Unfortunately, the recent tornado and storm activity meant that all the motels and hotels around the Chattanooga and surrounding areas were filled to the brim with refugees from Georgia, and Alabama. We had no choice but to continue driving down south. We found a room in Gadsden, AL and with Matt at the wheel, we raced through the dark, straight, empty highways of Alabama to find beds for our tired souls. By the time we hit the sack at the Best Western in Gadsden, it was about 1 in the morning, and we had covered about 700 miles after almost 11 hours of driving through five states. This was also the start of our rather unhealthy obsession with Best Westerns - the Largest Hotel Chain in the World. That night we simply collapsed.
Day 2
Early Saturday morning, after a complimentary breakfast courtesy of BWH, we set out for New Orleans via Birmingham, the largest city in Alabama. Birmingham in the 60s was one of the epicenters of the Civil Rights Movement and the city is littered with monuments and testimonies of the men, women, children, and events that led the fight for equality for all. We drove into Birmingham on Sunday morning at ten and parked next to the civil rights museum where a large sign warned "No Panhandling". Almost immediately, a ragged gentlemen stepped up to ask for some spare change.
Birmingham was a dead city on a Sunday morning. Presumably, everyone was in church! We walked around the city along the historical Civil Rights Walk, where the likes of MLK had raised a ruckus almost fifty years ago. It was here that we encountered a small medical center - "Hugs n' Kisses - Alternative Care for the Mildly Ill Child". After a quick loo break we left the eerie town and headed back on the road towards NO. I encountered my first ever Cracker Barrel and Jenny and I were racked with curiosity. Matt and Michele fed us, what we later learned, apocryphal stories of what exactly a Cracker Barrel is. We were told of mysterious peg games, and exotic foods, but more on that later.
On-route, we stopped for lunch on the shores of Lake Tom Bailey in the state of Mississippi. Apart from watching people fish and enjoying some fresh air, discussion of a potential two days stop at NO was brought up. There was a movie shoot that was happening somewhere around NO, but to go there meant stopping at NO for an extra day. This quickly became a contentious issue.
As we continued driving through the swamplands and mangroves leading to NO, we encountered the first signs of the consequences of Katrina and Rita, almost six years ago. One of the long bridges controlling the ebb and flow of traffic into NO, lay in ruins...
(To be continued...)
Final Route*:
New York, NY -> Washington DC -> Knoxville, TN -> Chattanooga, TN -> Gadsden, AL -> Birmingham, AL -> New Orleans, LA -> Houston, TX -> Brenham, TX -> Austin, TX -> Carlsbad, NM -> Santa Fe, NM -> Grand Canyon, AZ -> Santa Monica, CA -> Malibu, CA -> Washington DC
So, on Friday the 28th, after stocking up on snacks and stories, we picked up Michelle and her massive sleeping bag from the metro and started our 3600 mile journey to The Pacific. Day One aim was to get as close to New Orleans as possible. We headed west on the dreaded I-66, the scourge of all interstates, and then headed south on I-81, passing through Virginia, the tornado ravaged lands of West Virginia, and finally Tennessee, where we stopped for a bite in the university town of Knoxville.
Knoxville was surprising. It was hip. Something I did not associate with the South. Perhaps because it's an university town that it felt like it was really hip and youthful. Perhaps we only saw that part of the city. We walked through the central plaza, almost an European type piazza with fountains and Frisbees. We walked through a rather curious sculpture garden where we got our first taste of Southern modern art. We made it a game of guessing the prices of some of the works. Dinner was at an upscale joint on the corner of the piazza. I had a Atlanta brew called Deepwater 420, a really sweet and hoppy beer that felt like it was brewed with saltwater. Matt had the most amazing bisque. Jenny and I shared a rather interesting gourmet Mac'n'Cheese.
As we left Knoxville, we decided to drive for a couple of hours and get as close to New Orleans as possible, which was still about 500 miles away. We decided to stop at Chattanooga, TN a little border town by Alabama. Unfortunately, the recent tornado and storm activity meant that all the motels and hotels around the Chattanooga and surrounding areas were filled to the brim with refugees from Georgia, and Alabama. We had no choice but to continue driving down south. We found a room in Gadsden, AL and with Matt at the wheel, we raced through the dark, straight, empty highways of Alabama to find beds for our tired souls. By the time we hit the sack at the Best Western in Gadsden, it was about 1 in the morning, and we had covered about 700 miles after almost 11 hours of driving through five states. This was also the start of our rather unhealthy obsession with Best Westerns - the Largest Hotel Chain in the World. That night we simply collapsed.
Day 2
Early Saturday morning, after a complimentary breakfast courtesy of BWH, we set out for New Orleans via Birmingham, the largest city in Alabama. Birmingham in the 60s was one of the epicenters of the Civil Rights Movement and the city is littered with monuments and testimonies of the men, women, children, and events that led the fight for equality for all. We drove into Birmingham on Sunday morning at ten and parked next to the civil rights museum where a large sign warned "No Panhandling". Almost immediately, a ragged gentlemen stepped up to ask for some spare change.
Birmingham was a dead city on a Sunday morning. Presumably, everyone was in church! We walked around the city along the historical Civil Rights Walk, where the likes of MLK had raised a ruckus almost fifty years ago. It was here that we encountered a small medical center - "Hugs n' Kisses - Alternative Care for the Mildly Ill Child". After a quick loo break we left the eerie town and headed back on the road towards NO. I encountered my first ever Cracker Barrel and Jenny and I were racked with curiosity. Matt and Michele fed us, what we later learned, apocryphal stories of what exactly a Cracker Barrel is. We were told of mysterious peg games, and exotic foods, but more on that later.
On-route, we stopped for lunch on the shores of Lake Tom Bailey in the state of Mississippi. Apart from watching people fish and enjoying some fresh air, discussion of a potential two days stop at NO was brought up. There was a movie shoot that was happening somewhere around NO, but to go there meant stopping at NO for an extra day. This quickly became a contentious issue.
As we continued driving through the swamplands and mangroves leading to NO, we encountered the first signs of the consequences of Katrina and Rita, almost six years ago. One of the long bridges controlling the ebb and flow of traffic into NO, lay in ruins...
(To be continued...)
Final Route*:
New York, NY -> Washington DC -> Knoxville, TN -> Chattanooga, TN -> Gadsden, AL -> Birmingham, AL -> New Orleans, LA -> Houston, TX -> Brenham, TX -> Austin, TX -> Carlsbad, NM -> Santa Fe, NM -> Grand Canyon, AZ -> Santa Monica, CA -> Malibu, CA -> Washington DC
*Places in bold are where we spent the night
Monday, December 20, 2010
This is The Dhali (Delhi) Part 1: “Thank you for flying Air-F**kin-India, Bitch!”
It all started with Jamshed, my rickshaw driver. That’s a lie. It started a while before that, but Jamshed played an integral role. Actually that’s a lie too. Jamshed had nothing to do with it. I don’t even know what “it” is. Whatever “it” is, Obama doesn’t get “it”, and neither do I. Okay, none of that made any sense. This is supposed to be the monumental story of my recent trip to India, and I’ve started it like a mummer’s farce.
It was supposed to be simple, land at Delhi, change a plane and fly to Kolkata (formerly and better-ly Calcutta), but no, Air India couldn’t keep things simple. That just wouldn’t be the Indian experience. You have to earn your satisfaction here.
To prohibit myself from reliving this horrible experience, I shall simply reprint the letter I wrote to Air India:
Dear Air India,
Although in all likelihood, you don’t care what your customers think of your service, I wish to lodge a complaint regarding the atrocious and inhuman treatment of Kolkata bound passengers on AI 102 from JFK to CCU via DEL on the 14th of November 2010 by the Air India airport staff at Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi. The PNR number of my ticket is JBVJ1.
Although in all likelihood, you don’t care what your customers think of your service, I wish to lodge a complaint regarding the atrocious and inhuman treatment of Kolkata bound passengers on AI 102 from JFK to CCU via DEL on the 14th of November 2010 by the Air India airport staff at Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi. The PNR number of my ticket is JBVJ1.
When flight AI 102 landed at IGN Airport Terminal 3 at 4.45PM on the 15th of November 2010 after a 16 hour non-stop flight from New York, all Air India transfer passengers were made to go through another security check and moved to the international departure lounge. There was no information regarding AI 680 which was to take all Kolkata bound passengers from Delhi to Kolkata on the departure screens nor was there an Air India representative to shed light on the matter. Most passengers found out from the grapevine that AI 680 had been cancelled! No announcements were made or information posted on any screen. I was also told that these events are now frequent with Air India, and happen almost every week.
The information desk unsuccessfully spent two hours trying to get an Air India representative to come and provide us with more information, but no one came. Eventually, the passengers, 34 Kolkata bound, and 17 Chennai bound (whose flight had also been cancelled without notification), caught an arbitrary Air India employee to try and get more information. This Air India employee tried to escape the passengers but some of the passengers, including myself, doggedly followed him, till he eventually called out the Duty Manager claiming some passengers were harassing him. Finally, after three hours of waiting, at 8PM, the duty manager came and said that the flight was cancelled and that we would be given hotel accommodation for the night and put on the 7AM flight to Kolkata. He asked us to be patient till he organized everything. And what a fantastic job he did (I’m being sarcastic here in case you didn’t understand).
At 9PM, we were asked to go to the food court for dinner where we were served beggar’s ware of some watered down yellow daal, paneer, rice, and one roti from Curry Kitchen. I ate better food in boarding school. After feeding us this pathetic dinner we were made to wait another hour before being told to head down to immigration. At the immigration counters, the Duty Manager disappeared and left us in the hand of some Air India peon who had no idea what was going on and started a row with the immigration officers. The immigration officers wouldn’t let us go through and the peon was sent to find some qualified Air India personnel to explain the situation. Now we had 51 people, mostly elderly folk and families with little kids standing in the middle of the immigration section with nothing to do but get frustrated by the Air India’s apathy and lack of respect for their passengers.
Finally, after another hour of waiting, at 11PM, we passed through immigration, and picked up our baggage. Unfortunately, the baggage of one family was also lost. Some other Air India person with a mouthful of paan came and reassured us that everything was under control, and the coach to take us to the hotel was waiting outside. So we took our bags and went outside the airport but there was no coach, bus, or any other transport waiting for us. Then this Air India representative disappeared. An hour went by, and there was no sign of the bus or the Air India representative. Finally at 12.30AM, 8 hours after we landed in Delhi, two shabby coaches showed up and parked a hundred meters away from where we were waiting. We were instructed to go and load our baggage in the coaches and get in. The coaches were so small, that our entire luggage did not fit in the two coaches, and some people were left stranded behind while the first two coaches went off to the hotel. After a forty minute drive in the rickety bus, we arrived at an equally shabby hotel called City Mark somewhere in Gurgaon. This hotel didn’t even have rooms ready for us and asked us to wait while the rooms were being prepared. It was past 1 AM by now. After another twenty minutes, the manager informed us that there weren’t enough rooms in the hotel so he was sending some of us to another hotel a few minutes away. He promised us that this hotel would be equally shabby, if not worse. By the time we checked in and hauled our luggage to our room in this third class hotel called DDR Residency, it was almost 2 AM. That left us with little more than 1 hour to sleep because the bus to take us back to the airport was going to come at 4AM, so were to assemble in the lobby at 3.30AM. Apart from a couple of hours of sleep on the flight, the last time any of the passengers had slept was more than 24 hours ago.
After a relaxing stay of 1.5 hours in the hotel (FYI sarcasm again), where we found a used condom and a cockroach in the bathroom, we assembled downstairs to wait another hour for the coach to show up. Luckily all the folks at DDR Residency and their luggage fit in this coach. Unfortunately, the hotel did not have staff to help us load the coach so we (by we, I mean three unmarried young people including myself and the driver) to load the bags into the coach. After reaching the airport, we unloaded and found that there was no Air India staff to help us. The guards at the gates would not let us in since we did not have any ticketing information regarding our flight from Delhi. Finally, I went to the ticketing office and asked if seats had been reserved for us on IC 401. The gentlemen at the desk said that there were no reservations in any of our names and that we should speak to the duty manager. The passengers staying at the other hotel still had not arrived at this point.
We went to the duty manager who didn’t have any idea what we were talking about and asked us to go find out if there were any vacancies in other airlines since IC 401 was fully booked. The Chennai bound passengers were in the same boat. Finally some lady in-charge of reservations sent a message saying that she had blocked some seats on IC 401 and only then did a staff officer grudgingly process our boarding passes. By now it was already 6.30AM, and we had thirty minutes to clear security and get to the gate. As we were going through security, we finally saw the remaining passengers from the other hotel come in… they had been waiting outside trying to get in! It was sheer luck that we all managed to get back to Kolkata.
I have never experienced such apathetic and horrendous service by any airline. The lack of organization and random cancellation of flights aside, the unapologetic and downright rude behavior of the airline management staff was frustrating and simply unacceptable. As a regular Air India flier from the US to India over the last 6 years, I am insulted by the way you have treated us. No word of apology was ever given and every question was met with exasperation as if we were burdening the staff with unnecessary requests. It is a small wonder that Air India is doing such terrible business and losing customers to Jet Airways and Kingfisher.
I am flying back to the US on the 19th of December from CCU to DEL on AI 681 and DEL to JFK on AI 101, but I promise you that it will be that last time I fly Air India. Rest assured I will advise everyone I know, never to fly by an airline which regards its passengers as baggage instead of human beings. The way Air India treated those 51 people was testimony of Air India’s ineptitude, incompetence and total disregard for its passengers. I can offer no thanks, only insults and demand that you compensate these 51 passengers for the inhuman way you have treated them.
If you are an Air India employee and reading this letter please know that you are working for a company doomed to fail due to poor management, and I advise you to get out and get another job as quickly as you can.
A begrudging former customer,
Me
I am yet to hear back from Air India.
Next week, we continue with an exciting new installment of “This is The Dahli (Delhi) Part 2: The Wedding of The Kunj”
Till then, fare thee well.
I am yet to hear back from Air India.
Next week, we continue with an exciting new installment of “This is The Dahli (Delhi) Part 2: The Wedding of The Kunj”
Till then, fare thee well.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Surviving Terminal Three
I haven't written anything in a while and this one's been in the stir for a while and is still an incomplete drama, but should make for decent reading till I can get something more worthwhile up.
August 22
BA 179 touched down atJohn F. Kennedy Airport New York City Calcutta
It was going to be a wait at JFK for my connecting toSyracuse
There was no earlier flight. I would have to take the1:15 pm flight the next afternoon. Without asking Ron to do the math, I figured that was a good 15-hour wait. I needed to set up camp for the night. After several nights spent at airports all over Europe I was quite accustomed to this, nothing to take pride in, but it did take one back to the ‘hunter-gatherer’ days. First, seek out abandoned luggage trolleys to hold your baggage, and then find good shelter close to a freshwater source and a toilet. Finally, before attempting to snatch some shuteye, it is advisable to secure your baggage with off-the-cuff anti-theft systems like grappling hooks, stray wires, whatever is at hand.
Unfortunately, the Delta Domestic Departures terminal is not built to host the needs of temporary hobos like myself. There were exactly two sets of waiting seats able to accommodate precisely nine people give or take a couple, literally. Another overnighter couple had annexed one bench and I lost my seat on the other when I went to use the facilities.
For a while, I just wandered around the now closed terminal, pushing my trolley, wishing Hann were around. Hann knew, through experience, how to hold on to territorial claims and was quite adept at finding lush green pastures. Eventually I decided to build my own shelter with the parts I had. I managed to smuggle myself behind enemy lines and steal a bunch of chairs from the check-in counters. The idea was to make a bed with six roller-chairs. It was a bad idea. I fell. Twice.
I was also getting a little hungry. Rations were running low. I had one bar of Dairy Milk, a KitKat, 2 bottles of Black Label, and a jar of chili-garlic spread. The terminal would open at 5, so I had to wait another six hours before more food would become available. Restraint was necessary.
I made a makeshift weight-holder using my trolley, backpack, and suitcase. I was not a comfortable arrangement, but I was not sleepy anyway, jet lag. I killed a couple of hours watching ‘Mona Lisa Smile’ that I had downloaded for Gupta and was still on my computer and watching people come and go. I had to get up and walk around every once in a while to stop my backside from falling asleep… it had been lethargically resting for the last 18 hours on the plane.
August 22
BA 179 touched down at
It was going to be a wait at JFK for my connecting to
There was no earlier flight. I would have to take the
Unfortunately, the Delta Domestic Departures terminal is not built to host the needs of temporary hobos like myself. There were exactly two sets of waiting seats able to accommodate precisely nine people give or take a couple, literally. Another overnighter couple had annexed one bench and I lost my seat on the other when I went to use the facilities.
For a while, I just wandered around the now closed terminal, pushing my trolley, wishing Hann were around. Hann knew, through experience, how to hold on to territorial claims and was quite adept at finding lush green pastures. Eventually I decided to build my own shelter with the parts I had. I managed to smuggle myself behind enemy lines and steal a bunch of chairs from the check-in counters. The idea was to make a bed with six roller-chairs. It was a bad idea. I fell. Twice.
I was also getting a little hungry. Rations were running low. I had one bar of Dairy Milk, a KitKat, 2 bottles of Black Label, and a jar of chili-garlic spread. The terminal would open at 5, so I had to wait another six hours before more food would become available. Restraint was necessary.
I made a makeshift weight-holder using my trolley, backpack, and suitcase. I was not a comfortable arrangement, but I was not sleepy anyway, jet lag. I killed a couple of hours watching ‘Mona Lisa Smile’ that I had downloaded for Gupta and was still on my computer and watching people come and go. I had to get up and walk around every once in a while to stop my backside from falling asleep… it had been lethargically resting for the last 18 hours on the plane.
August 23
At 3:40 in the morning, I decided to give up on my attempts to get some sleep and started writing this, boredom being my sheer motivation. I have nothing else to add right now. I will continue to relate in real time if anything worthy of interest happens…
So after six cool-mints, ten hours, and $25 in excess baggage fines later I finally have my boarding pass… six hours before departure. I sit on the floor to charge my laptop and immediately security begins to ask my complexion a serious of arbitrary questions. Once it charges up a bit more, enough to watch a few episodes of ‘Entourage’, I will go through security.
Through security. First, I eat, good old Flaming Wok, or such… Chinese fast food places all look the same. Sleepy, so sleepy, and sick… sick from apathy and malnutrition, not to mention the head pounding dhickkao dhichkao music I have been subject to all night on the loud speakers. Please *insert supreme power of religious faith here*, will you not end it soon? Can you feel the sewage in my stream of consciousness bogging down my thinking?
After making pleasant conversation with a gentleman from the Emirates, and a short nap I find out that the1:15 flight to Syracuse Syracuse 5 pm flight, but no one has any idea if the $25 they charged me for excess baggage will be refunded if I take the bus. I met another chap from India 5 pm flight fails to arrive, I am quite fucked. The board says flight is on time, but there are still three long, excruciating hours to go and even then, things are not concrete.
I tried to call Ashlee to let her know what has happened so far, but the machine just ate up my dollar. Bhen chod, aaj to bad luck hi kharab hai… I had to call Amit with myUK
They just announced that the flight toBuffalo Chicago 4:55 is cancelled. I hate flying. Worst-case scenario I think a bunch of us will cab it… there are enough irate customers here.
September 16
So after six cool-mints, ten hours, and $25 in excess baggage fines later I finally have my boarding pass… six hours before departure. I sit on the floor to charge my laptop and immediately security begins to ask my complexion a serious of arbitrary questions. Once it charges up a bit more, enough to watch a few episodes of ‘Entourage’, I will go through security.
Through security. First, I eat, good old Flaming Wok, or such… Chinese fast food places all look the same. Sleepy, so sleepy, and sick… sick from apathy and malnutrition, not to mention the head pounding dhickkao dhichkao music I have been subject to all night on the loud speakers. Please *insert supreme power of religious faith here*, will you not end it soon? Can you feel the sewage in my stream of consciousness bogging down my thinking?
After making pleasant conversation with a gentleman from the Emirates, and a short nap I find out that the
I tried to call Ashlee to let her know what has happened so far, but the machine just ate up my dollar. Bhen chod, aaj to bad luck hi kharab hai… I had to call Amit with my
They just announced that the flight to
September 16
Sunday, March 25, 2007
“You Can’t Always Get What You Want!” [1]
There is a lot to talk about for this bored meeting.
Wimbledon was a very disappointing outing. Not only were we lost but it also started to rain and the construction kept us out of the grounds. The museum was cool with some stunning AV demos, but for six quid that’s the least you’d expect. All other pictures, at least the good ones are on Facebook.
First on the agenda is the induction of one Allison “Chouball” Chou into this blog. A few more names and we will be like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Let me tell you a bit about Chou. Never believe a word of what she says. Half the lies she says aren’t true. What else do you expect from a former employee of a sketchy New York
Jae, Amit, Shraddha, and Noah were visiting for the last couple of weeks. It was great fun. Noah and I went to watch Patrick Stewart as Prospero in a superb RSC production of “The Tempest”. All through the show, I was always expecting him to say, “Engage”, but it never came. Later Amit, Noah, and I went to watch Monty Python’s “Spamalot”. Although we had crappy seats, it was a very enjoyable show, but not in the same league as T. However, the best play I’ve seen in the West End
My Economics teacher is expecting a child in a couple of weeks. They’ve named her Helena Sin City
Jae and I went on a Beatles trip to Liverpool London Abbey Road
St. Patrick’s Day was another experience. We went to watch the parade and the live performances at Trafalgar Square Leicester Square
My plans for Spain Portugal Finland Finland London Morocco Scotland
To top things off we have the sad demise of the Indian Cricket Team. 'Tis a sad day when Ireland makes it past the league stage and India doesn't. I will not sulk, not even when Arsenal is beaten by Everton.
[1]: The Rolling Stones. Seems to capture our thoughts.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Regular Karma
Yesterday sucked.
I first found out that my planned trip to Spain, Portugal and Morocco were down the drain, because the earliest visa appointment date I could get was the 16th of April, when my trip was actually supposed to end. Not to mention I'm going to lose all my flight bookings... now there's a hundred quid well spent. And it was Holy Week too... For the first time I realised how much it sucked to have an Indian passport.
Later in the evening my friend called and since she too was depressed for her own reasons, we decided to watch a movie to cheer up... and I got ice-cream too!
"The Last King of Scotland" is undoubtedly one of the best "historical" movie I've seen since "Motorcycle Diaries". Forest Whitaker was brilliantly gruesome as Idi Amin. True, one might draw parallels to "Hotel Rwanda", but it's still a bloody good movie. Watch it. The movie was great but it was as much fun as playing with asbestos and did nothing to improve my mood.
Being a student of economics I'm waiting for the trade-off for my run of shit luck.
I first found out that my planned trip to Spain, Portugal and Morocco were down the drain, because the earliest visa appointment date I could get was the 16th of April, when my trip was actually supposed to end. Not to mention I'm going to lose all my flight bookings... now there's a hundred quid well spent. And it was Holy Week too... For the first time I realised how much it sucked to have an Indian passport.
Later in the evening my friend called and since she too was depressed for her own reasons, we decided to watch a movie to cheer up... and I got ice-cream too!
"The Last King of Scotland" is undoubtedly one of the best "historical" movie I've seen since "Motorcycle Diaries". Forest Whitaker was brilliantly gruesome as Idi Amin. True, one might draw parallels to "Hotel Rwanda", but it's still a bloody good movie. Watch it. The movie was great but it was as much fun as playing with asbestos and did nothing to improve my mood.
Being a student of economics I'm waiting for the trade-off for my run of shit luck.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
White Socks
I hate it when trains are late. It is universal. All over the world, trains are always late. I do not like trains, but I like train stations. There is something surreal about train stations – a microcosm of modern society if you will. I enjoy sitting on a platform bench observing the world go past, entranced by the multitude of cacophonous sounds that echo around the high ceilings. Yes, I like train stations; trains are a different matter altogether.
Leaning my head against the wall, I was about to fall asleep when the sliding compartment door was violently pushed apart and a dirty little man with a large mustache and a navy blue knapsack walked in. He looked at us with leery eyes and snorted, and with a magical sleight of hand produced two packets and tossed one to each one of us. I caught the packet on my lap. It was a set of white socks. Bewildered, I looked up and caught Hann’s equally confused eyes looking at me. People usually don’t hand out sets of white socks.
“Socks.” The man said as if he had answered the question to life, universe, and everything else. We looked up at him.
He scratched his rough chin and sighed. “Ummm… twenty Euros.”
I look at Hann and he's busy inspecting the goods. I look down at my packet, not sure what to do, so I look at the stubby Italian expecting some sort of an explanation..."For you only twenty Euros..."
The stubby Italian snatched the packet out of my hand and walked out with a solemn face. Once again the compartment lapsed into silence. I resumed my vigil on the platform, waiting to get to Rome.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Pictures of Scaffolding
I feel a faithless lover returning to my faithless love. It has been a long time since I've written anything on this blog. This sphere is slowly turning into a shallow grave. It appears that the spunk driving the intense blogging in its early stages have now given way to sporadic notes like these. Honestly though, can you really blame me?
Initially I was quite gung-ho about recording my Odyssey through Europe in these pages, but now I'm not so sure. But I'll start anyway and see how far it goes...
My journey seemed to be star-crossed from the beginning, what with Pragyan breaking his leg a few weeks before our plans finalised and my failure to obtain a British visa early enough to drop my bags off in London. Plus there was the theft of my wallet in NYC (I have a feeling the pickpocket responsible was a graduate of LSP...). Not to mention that I was now going to be travelling on my own... I was a little apprehensive.
However, one morning I called Hann, a recent Hamilton grad and asked, "Hey, I'm going to Europe, want to tag along?" Fortunately, and rather surprisingly Hann said, "yeah, sure why not." The rest they say is history, but I shall spell it out for you anyway...
This series is going to be broken into 21 parts, one for each city, I think.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Red Eye Tripping
Next time I fly long distance I’m going to adopt a little toddler so I can get on the plane early and find an overhead bin to store my carry-on baggage because it is impossible otherwise. At least for a polite person like me.
My flight back to college was star-crossed from the word go. I’m not sure what it was, but I started feeling very sick at the airport and threw up a couple of times before boarding the airplane. I had booked my tickets a long time back and dad had even pre-booked seats for me, but as it turned out, they were really very crappy seats, not Air India crappy, but crappy nevertheless. I was seated next to a boring, middle-aged couple who were carrying their own food and kept eating all the way through to London. Just watching them made me throw up twice in the airplane toilet. I did get around to watching Lord of War and Pride and Prejudice in between my false alarm runs to the can.
London Heathrow was not any better. The transit security check took forever and my cell phone decided to run out of batteries. The duty free shops were charging outrageously compared to India or even Paris, so I ended up buying nothing. Twenty four pounds for a carton of cigarettes, are you insane? I think it’s a conspiracy to stop people from smoking.
The nine-hour flight to Chicago was also marred from the start. For some uncanny reason the plane could not make it to the gate so they provided shuttle service to take the passengers to the plane, all three hundred of us. Sometimes I wonder how a mess up like this is even possible. Anyway, this time I took my seat between an elderly NRI nurse and a rather striking blonde. Well if nothing I could at least squeeze out a conversation with a beautiful girl, but alas, being German, she spoke no English. Perhaps she just did not want to talk to me… My stomach was a little better but I was still feeling lousy. This time I watched The Constant Gardener and Wedding Crashers, but under extreme discomfort. Partially because of my stomach and partially because of the million toddlers on board making a hell of a racket.
Chicago. I passed through immigrations quickly, but then ended up waiting forty minutes for my baggage. No matter, I said to myself, I still have four hours. I quickly moved through Customs and took the train to Terminal 3 only to be told that all flights to Syracuse had been cancelled. I still do not know how I stopped myself from flushing my head down the toilet. The next flight was at ten the next morning. My four-hour wait had now turned into a fourteen-hour wait. What is worse, they did not even give me freaking food coupons. This is the last time I fly with those American Airlines bastards.
I didn’t have much money with me and I finished most of it on a lavish dinner at O’Hare Airport as a celebration of my recuperating stomach, slightly prematurely as it later turned out. It was like Port Authority all over again, minus the illegal Mexican immigrants and gun trotting psychos. But it was still spooky because I was the only passenger in the entire terminal, the rest were the cleaning crew. One of them was watching the CNN News. A SWAT officer shot a 15-year-old kid because he was holding a pellet gun that resembled a .45 automatic. This country I tell you…
I met a whole bunch of college kids at the airport and tried to make polite conversation. It is stupid to ask a kid who goes to college in the US if she enjoys college. I have never heard anyone complain about college here. After all, if you’re forking out more than thirty grand a year for college, you had better enjoy it. You’d look stupid if you left your family and friends and spent a fortune coming to study in the US and then did not enjoy the experience. Even if one hates her college, they’re always go gaga when asked about it.
The next morning I flew to Syracuse. Just barely. We boarded the plane at 9:25 am, due to take off at 10. At 10 the pilot says that there's a slight dent in the right wing and the mechanics want to run a few tests, so be patient. I just hid my head in sorrow. The Syracuse University student next to me started writing poetry. "...and the coocooned caterpillat turned into a butterfly" Oh my God!
My baggage of course had a trip of its own. Interestingly enough my suitcase ended up in Dakota the night before but then they got it back to me in Syracuse airport. I don’t even want to know how. Thank god for that, I had some important stuff in there, including Professor Bradfield’s textbooks. US domestic airlines are such a mess and then they wonder why American Airlines and company are filing for bankruptcy.
It was so cold you couldn’t even finish a thought. Every thought ended prematurely with the exclamation “fuck, it’s cold!” I realized I didn’t have enough cash for a cab. Most of it had gone into my one-man food and booze celebration the night before. But I knew that one Hamilton student was flying in at noon and I was sure there would be more. So I picked up my baggage, borrowed a big blank signboard and wrote “Hamilton Anyone?” and parked myself by the airport exit. As luck would have it, and deservedly so after all the shit I had been through, I saw Ahn as she was walking out of the airport. Thought we'd share a cab back to college but nope, it turned out to be someone else.
My flight back to college was star-crossed from the word go. I’m not sure what it was, but I started feeling very sick at the airport and threw up a couple of times before boarding the airplane. I had booked my tickets a long time back and dad had even pre-booked seats for me, but as it turned out, they were really very crappy seats, not Air India crappy, but crappy nevertheless. I was seated next to a boring, middle-aged couple who were carrying their own food and kept eating all the way through to London. Just watching them made me throw up twice in the airplane toilet. I did get around to watching Lord of War and Pride and Prejudice in between my false alarm runs to the can.
London Heathrow was not any better. The transit security check took forever and my cell phone decided to run out of batteries. The duty free shops were charging outrageously compared to India or even Paris, so I ended up buying nothing. Twenty four pounds for a carton of cigarettes, are you insane? I think it’s a conspiracy to stop people from smoking.
The nine-hour flight to Chicago was also marred from the start. For some uncanny reason the plane could not make it to the gate so they provided shuttle service to take the passengers to the plane, all three hundred of us. Sometimes I wonder how a mess up like this is even possible. Anyway, this time I took my seat between an elderly NRI nurse and a rather striking blonde. Well if nothing I could at least squeeze out a conversation with a beautiful girl, but alas, being German, she spoke no English. Perhaps she just did not want to talk to me… My stomach was a little better but I was still feeling lousy. This time I watched The Constant Gardener and Wedding Crashers, but under extreme discomfort. Partially because of my stomach and partially because of the million toddlers on board making a hell of a racket.
Chicago. I passed through immigrations quickly, but then ended up waiting forty minutes for my baggage. No matter, I said to myself, I still have four hours. I quickly moved through Customs and took the train to Terminal 3 only to be told that all flights to Syracuse had been cancelled. I still do not know how I stopped myself from flushing my head down the toilet. The next flight was at ten the next morning. My four-hour wait had now turned into a fourteen-hour wait. What is worse, they did not even give me freaking food coupons. This is the last time I fly with those American Airlines bastards.
I didn’t have much money with me and I finished most of it on a lavish dinner at O’Hare Airport as a celebration of my recuperating stomach, slightly prematurely as it later turned out. It was like Port Authority all over again, minus the illegal Mexican immigrants and gun trotting psychos. But it was still spooky because I was the only passenger in the entire terminal, the rest were the cleaning crew. One of them was watching the CNN News. A SWAT officer shot a 15-year-old kid because he was holding a pellet gun that resembled a .45 automatic. This country I tell you…
I met a whole bunch of college kids at the airport and tried to make polite conversation. It is stupid to ask a kid who goes to college in the US if she enjoys college. I have never heard anyone complain about college here. After all, if you’re forking out more than thirty grand a year for college, you had better enjoy it. You’d look stupid if you left your family and friends and spent a fortune coming to study in the US and then did not enjoy the experience. Even if one hates her college, they’re always go gaga when asked about it.
The next morning I flew to Syracuse. Just barely. We boarded the plane at 9:25 am, due to take off at 10. At 10 the pilot says that there's a slight dent in the right wing and the mechanics want to run a few tests, so be patient. I just hid my head in sorrow. The Syracuse University student next to me started writing poetry. "...and the coocooned caterpillat turned into a butterfly" Oh my God!
My baggage of course had a trip of its own. Interestingly enough my suitcase ended up in Dakota the night before but then they got it back to me in Syracuse airport. I don’t even want to know how. Thank god for that, I had some important stuff in there, including Professor Bradfield’s textbooks. US domestic airlines are such a mess and then they wonder why American Airlines and company are filing for bankruptcy.
It was so cold you couldn’t even finish a thought. Every thought ended prematurely with the exclamation “fuck, it’s cold!” I realized I didn’t have enough cash for a cab. Most of it had gone into my one-man food and booze celebration the night before. But I knew that one Hamilton student was flying in at noon and I was sure there would be more. So I picked up my baggage, borrowed a big blank signboard and wrote “Hamilton Anyone?” and parked myself by the airport exit. As luck would have it, and deservedly so after all the shit I had been through, I saw Ahn as she was walking out of the airport. Thought we'd share a cab back to college but nope, it turned out to be someone else.
There's a pre-paid taxi booth at the airport, but they are crazy expensive, so I decided to call a city metered cab. Unfortunately every Yellow Pages book in the airport had all the pages after T ripped out so Taxis weren't listed. Finally I managed to find one intact copy and dialed the first number on the list. And they sent me a limo. I was chauffered back to college in fucking limo and it cost me a fortune... but perhaps at the end of the day, I deserved it.
I have been sleeping since then and woke up to write this. Perhaps a slightly anti-climactic ending to a rather nefarious series of incidents, but I prefer drab and dull to profoundly infuriating any day…I think.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Lansdowne School of Pickpockets
No I'm serious, during the pujas, these people in Lansdowne run the All-India Lansdowne School of Pickpockets. It attracts some of the best talent from all around the country. They can cut your "hidden" pocket and milk you dry before you've even paid the conductor on the bus. These people, ladies and gentlemen, the creme de la creme of the thriving theiving industry.
Interestingly, these young professionals are as selective as secretive. No cellphones, no large bags. Usually it's wallets and purses. I've never seen one at work, but I've heard they're like ninjas.
God, I love this city.
Interestingly, these young professionals are as selective as secretive. No cellphones, no large bags. Usually it's wallets and purses. I've never seen one at work, but I've heard they're like ninjas.
God, I love this city.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
The Three Pimping Warlocks of Albany
I read somewhere that six kids from M.I.T. had recently won four million dollars at various Vegas casinos simply using laws of probability. This weekend some of us decided to put that theory to test.
Location: Roulette Table 6, Turning Stone Casino, Oneida County, New York.
Time: Midnight, Saturday.
Participants: Shraddha Shah (financial officer), Pragyan Pradhan (mathematician extraordinaire!), Amit Desai (El Dhanno) and myself (lurking variable).
Initial capital: $100
Result: Hell yeah! Probability rocks!
After making a heavy kill at the roulette table after two hours, we decided to cash in our chips before we lost it all at the Hold'em tables. It was time to celebrate.
On the way back to college, 2 a.m. in the morning, we suddenly decided that we wanted to eat at Denny's at Albany, a town 90 miles west of where we were. So we did just that.
After an hour and a half of driving, with loud music and ghost stories and a video-taped karoake session, we rolled into Dunkin Donuts at Albany for some coffee.
We walk inside and two of us pretend we can't speak English too well and Pragyan acts as chief translator.
Random Dunkin Donuts dude (DD): What can I get for you guys?
Me (pointing at croissant sandwich picture): What kroi-ssanntts thing?
DD elaborately explains what a croissant is...
Me: No English.
Pragyan: They no understand English. Ve vant four cups of kaafee, please.
Shraddha takes us aside and we start chatting randomly in vernacular.
DD: Will that be all?
Pragyan: Please sir, give us another minute, eh, please, sir.
DD: Yeah dude, whatever, man.
We go back to the service counter.
Pragyan: Ok, that will be all. We've come all the way from Nepal (AN: Pragyan is from Katmandu, Nepal) yeah, to eat here, please make this good, yeah?
DD gives us weird looks as Shraddha, Amit and I talk in vernacular, seemingly fascinated by an automatic ketchup dispenser, and goes to get our coffee. A couple of minutes later our coffee arrive in these cups with special lids which can be opened like soda cans. We all pretend we have no fucking idea how to drink the coffee. So I walk up to the Dunkin Donuts dude.
Me (gesturing): How, drink?
DD very kindly opens the lid for me. I give him fancy smile. He shudders.
We take a center table and begin slurrping our coffee as loudly as we can and talk animatedly in vernacular scandalising the other late night patrons of DD, including a bunch of Union College students! Shraddha dares me to stand on a table and seduce her. I do it atanding on a chair instead, 'cause the tables were too wobbly. People start leaving.
After finishing our coffees we get back into our car and drive around looking for Denny's. We find PriceChopper's, a 24 hour supermarket. We walk in. It's 3:30 in the morning.
Shraddha walks up to random people shelving shampoo.
Location: Roulette Table 6, Turning Stone Casino, Oneida County, New York.
Time: Midnight, Saturday.
Participants: Shraddha Shah (financial officer), Pragyan Pradhan (mathematician extraordinaire!), Amit Desai (El Dhanno) and myself (lurking variable).
Initial capital: $100
Result: Hell yeah! Probability rocks!
After making a heavy kill at the roulette table after two hours, we decided to cash in our chips before we lost it all at the Hold'em tables. It was time to celebrate.
On the way back to college, 2 a.m. in the morning, we suddenly decided that we wanted to eat at Denny's at Albany, a town 90 miles west of where we were. So we did just that.
After an hour and a half of driving, with loud music and ghost stories and a video-taped karoake session, we rolled into Dunkin Donuts at Albany for some coffee.
We walk inside and two of us pretend we can't speak English too well and Pragyan acts as chief translator.
Random Dunkin Donuts dude (DD): What can I get for you guys?
Me (pointing at croissant sandwich picture): What kroi-ssanntts thing?
DD elaborately explains what a croissant is...
Me: No English.
Pragyan: They no understand English. Ve vant four cups of kaafee, please.
Shraddha takes us aside and we start chatting randomly in vernacular.
DD: Will that be all?
Pragyan: Please sir, give us another minute, eh, please, sir.
DD: Yeah dude, whatever, man.
We go back to the service counter.
Pragyan: Ok, that will be all. We've come all the way from Nepal (AN: Pragyan is from Katmandu, Nepal) yeah, to eat here, please make this good, yeah?
DD gives us weird looks as Shraddha, Amit and I talk in vernacular, seemingly fascinated by an automatic ketchup dispenser, and goes to get our coffee. A couple of minutes later our coffee arrive in these cups with special lids which can be opened like soda cans. We all pretend we have no fucking idea how to drink the coffee. So I walk up to the Dunkin Donuts dude.
Me (gesturing): How, drink?
DD very kindly opens the lid for me. I give him fancy smile. He shudders.
We take a center table and begin slurrping our coffee as loudly as we can and talk animatedly in vernacular scandalising the other late night patrons of DD, including a bunch of Union College students! Shraddha dares me to stand on a table and seduce her. I do it atanding on a chair instead, 'cause the tables were too wobbly. People start leaving.
After finishing our coffees we get back into our car and drive around looking for Denny's. We find PriceChopper's, a 24 hour supermarket. We walk in. It's 3:30 in the morning.
Shraddha walks up to random people shelving shampoo.
Shraddha: Do you know where I can get the croysaanuts?
Random guys look at each other in confusion.
1st Random Guy: Could you repeat that a little slowly please?
Shraddha: CROIY-SAA-NUTS?
2nd Random Guy: Ano... could you describe what you want?
Shraddha: gesturing It's the bread that goes round and round...
Both Random Guys: Ahh... croissants. At the bakery section in the back.
Pragyan walks to a some dude carrying a huge hunk of beef and stops him. I'm standing behind him.
Pragyan: Excuj me, excuj me, sir, can I ask a question, eh?
Beef Dude: Yeah man, sure.
Pragyan: gesturing Do I look physically capable of doing hard labour?
Beef Dude: looking confused What kind of labour?
Pragyan: You know, the hard kind...
Beef Dude: Yeah man, sure why not...
Beef dude slinks away when Pragyan is about to ask another question. We look around for another bakra. I find a lady stocking shelves in the toys department.
Maity: Do you know where I can get some paaaint?
Lady: Yes, come I'll show you.
Lady: Yes, come I'll show you.
I follow the lady to the other end of the store to the hardware section. She spends sometime showing me the different paints and textures. I pretend to listen carefully.
Lady: So what kind of paint would you like?
Maity: No, no, I just wanted to look, thank you.
Maity: No, no, I just wanted to look, thank you.
Saying so I walked away.
MORE TO COME...
Saturday, September 24, 2005
The Locking of Amod, Teaser Trailer
Yeah, that's Superman - the mother of all roller-coasters...
Some of us are still wondering, why the fuck do people enjoy sitting on a cart that's going to be tossed about at 2Gs on a flimsy metallic track.
But it was one heck of a ride!
To top the evening off... Amod was locked in the bathroom for half an hour!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DANIELLE.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Selling the Drama with Cool Blue Reason [1]
The Japanese actually made a cartoon on spinning tops (Bey Blade) [2]. Suddenly understanding life has become unworthy like a made-in-China Holy Grail.
The summer holidays are nearly drawing to a close. Although, at a personal level, this period has been rather uneventful (just the way I like it), the world it appears has spared no quarter to be as random as ever. If the world is hit by a giant chocolate ice-cream cone, the book can be sent for publishing.
Dad had applied for a US visa and I spent three hours outside the embassy in the pouring Calcutta rain waiting for him. I killed time talking to mothers who's kids were going to Princeton or UCLA or *insert fancy school name here*. There was one rather pretty girl who was happily dispensing advice and gyan to the nail biting mothers outside. She was a returning student to some shady university... I first overheard one of her conversations with a hoity-toity English aunty waiting for her daughter. The accent, the swirl of the skirt, the talk of parties and the gyan, was a hilariously fascinating combination and we struck up a conversation. Soon we were drawing crowds of over anxious mothers desperately trying to keep themselves dry with newspapers… it was like working for the study abroad consultancy company I used to work for while in St. Stephen's. Dad got a 10 year visa.
I did manage several trips to my ancestral village in Midnapore over summer. I couldn’t exactly chill considering the temperature was in the late thirties, but the fishing and soaking in the ponds was fun till someone told me that a crocodile had been spotted in the vicinity. I tried tracing back my lineage.
Among interesting things in the world were the Live 8 concerts and the Floyd reunion and some Japanese dude reciting the value of Pi to 85,000 decimal places (take that Ramola)! It was then that I realized that it was far better vellaing than subjecting myself to such mind-numbing activities…I’d rather smoke pot if I wanted that.
L.K. Advani acts out “The Importance of Being Earnest”, the RSS are pissed. The 2012 Olympics go to London for the third time, ze French are le pissed. Some obscure terrorist group blows up buses and tubes in London in celebration, suicide bombers have a blast in Ayodhya. CPM wins election in West Bengal, again (big surprise there), Bangladesh beat Australia in England (definitely big surprise there). Six cars racing at Indianapolis, Venus Williams acting the monkey, Whacko Jacko gets acquitted, Harry Potter posters gracing flyovers across Calcutta. The absconding IIM-C dhobi makes news in local newspapers. St. Stephen’s has a reunion at the Raj Bhavan in Calcutta. The government wants 25% quota for underprivileged students at private schools; CPI threatens to topple the government. A pauper makes one of the largest companies in the country, his Wharton and Stanford educated sons attempt to undo it. Singapore Airlines is flying you to Singapore and back for Rs. 4000. A friend in college commits suicide.
And here I am writing about Kaiser Blewzew feasting on stuffed peacocks on a blog.
Although, I guess, there is no need to be realistic since Abhishek Gupta is in Calcutta en route to his HLL job posting in Jharkhand [3].
“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our underpants” – Beau Peep.
[1] “Selling the Drama” – Live! and “Cool Blue Reason” – Cake
[2] Courtesy Jug Suraiya
[3] Courtesy Amit Chandra
The summer holidays are nearly drawing to a close. Although, at a personal level, this period has been rather uneventful (just the way I like it), the world it appears has spared no quarter to be as random as ever. If the world is hit by a giant chocolate ice-cream cone, the book can be sent for publishing.
Dad had applied for a US visa and I spent three hours outside the embassy in the pouring Calcutta rain waiting for him. I killed time talking to mothers who's kids were going to Princeton or UCLA or *insert fancy school name here*. There was one rather pretty girl who was happily dispensing advice and gyan to the nail biting mothers outside. She was a returning student to some shady university... I first overheard one of her conversations with a hoity-toity English aunty waiting for her daughter. The accent, the swirl of the skirt, the talk of parties and the gyan, was a hilariously fascinating combination and we struck up a conversation. Soon we were drawing crowds of over anxious mothers desperately trying to keep themselves dry with newspapers… it was like working for the study abroad consultancy company I used to work for while in St. Stephen's. Dad got a 10 year visa.
I did manage several trips to my ancestral village in Midnapore over summer. I couldn’t exactly chill considering the temperature was in the late thirties, but the fishing and soaking in the ponds was fun till someone told me that a crocodile had been spotted in the vicinity. I tried tracing back my lineage.
Among interesting things in the world were the Live 8 concerts and the Floyd reunion and some Japanese dude reciting the value of Pi to 85,000 decimal places (take that Ramola)! It was then that I realized that it was far better vellaing than subjecting myself to such mind-numbing activities…I’d rather smoke pot if I wanted that.
L.K. Advani acts out “The Importance of Being Earnest”, the RSS are pissed. The 2012 Olympics go to London for the third time, ze French are le pissed. Some obscure terrorist group blows up buses and tubes in London in celebration, suicide bombers have a blast in Ayodhya. CPM wins election in West Bengal, again (big surprise there), Bangladesh beat Australia in England (definitely big surprise there). Six cars racing at Indianapolis, Venus Williams acting the monkey, Whacko Jacko gets acquitted, Harry Potter posters gracing flyovers across Calcutta. The absconding IIM-C dhobi makes news in local newspapers. St. Stephen’s has a reunion at the Raj Bhavan in Calcutta. The government wants 25% quota for underprivileged students at private schools; CPI threatens to topple the government. A pauper makes one of the largest companies in the country, his Wharton and Stanford educated sons attempt to undo it. Singapore Airlines is flying you to Singapore and back for Rs. 4000. A friend in college commits suicide.
And here I am writing about Kaiser Blewzew feasting on stuffed peacocks on a blog.
Although, I guess, there is no need to be realistic since Abhishek Gupta is in Calcutta en route to his HLL job posting in Jharkhand [3].
“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our underpants” – Beau Peep.
[1] “Selling the Drama” – Live! and “Cool Blue Reason” – Cake
[2] Courtesy Jug Suraiya
[3] Courtesy Amit Chandra
Saturday, June 25, 2005
The Adventures of Glufsvon Zanzibar
After I started visualizing my International Relations professor feeding alligators in a white and scarlet toga, I knew I had had too much to drink. Picking up another vegetable egg roll that we had stolen from the dining hall I tried to tune in on what my roommate James Head, a Connecticut Yankee, was saying across the coffee table we were drinking at. It was something about a man called Glufsvon Zanzibar he had met in Paris a couple of years ago. Apparently this Mr. Zanzibar ran a kenjitsu (samurai sword techniques) school in Paris and believed in the recreational and medicinal qualities of hemp. Of all the places in Paris, James met Glufsvon, who according to James looked like a pirate in his twenties, on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower. Tracking the wafting fragrance of marijuana led James to his first meeting with Glufsvon who, leaning against the railings, was sharing a spliff with a certain gentleman who introduced himself as Ntokozo Xaba (pronounced: Toe-ko-zo Chka-aba). According to James, this Glufsvon Zanzibar was the most wholly remarkable person he had ever met. Of course, I only half believed what James said. After all, it was James who had come up the idea of assassinating Salman Rushdie when he had come to speak in college and picking up the bounty he had on his head. It was all too late when we realized that the fatwa on Mr. Rushdie’s head had long been removed. (Note: If you’re interested or know anyone who might be interested in buying a second hand Remington 700 sniper rifle in mint condition, give me a call.)
I’m writing this on the airplane back from Addis Ababa trying to distract myself from the air hostess with sweaty armpits. The last twenty days have been absolutely brilliant. The most fun I’ve had in a long time. I had landed a voluntary research internship at the University of Addis Ababa with a professor of anthropology and once that was over I managed short trips to Egypt and Tanzania to meet a couple of my friends from college who live there. What happened in Cairo was perhaps one of the funniest and most uncanny experiences of my life…
After two weeks of traversing through disease ridden backward Ethiopia and Tanzania, I decided to visit my friend Ngoda in Cairo and spend a week relaxing before flying back home. If you’ve been to Cairo recently you’ll remember that there’s an oasis not far from the pyramids of Giza. Twenty minutes as the camel runs, it’s usually a fairly desolate place, perfect for hanging out on a lazy Sunday evening. Ngoda and I reached the Oasis at six in the evening, just in time to watch the sun set over the dunes. There weren’t many people at the oasis, so Ngoda and I popped open a couple of chilled beers we had brought along and spread ourselves on the sand enjoying the sweet evening air. As I was getting bored with the scenery, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulders. I turned to see a smiling shabby face of bearded Arab. In perfect English he asked me if I had a light. I threw him a box of matches and watched him as he walked back to his friends under a clump of date trees. Catching my eye, the fellow walked back to us and asked us if we wanted to join them.
The next thing I know, Ngoda and I are sitting in a circle drinking thick Turkish coffee (note: never, ever add camel’s milk to coffee) with three other Arabs smoking a hookah and laughing at the stories they were telling us. I was relieved to find that they all spoke English quite fluently. Ngoda and I swapped a few of our own escapades in return. When the first Arab found out that Ngoda was a local kid, he lowered his tone to a whisper and asked him if he wanted to buy a camel real cheap and he whistled and a beautiful camel came and sat on its knees next to him. Ngoda, who I’m guessing knew his camels, asked him how much he was selling her for. I couldn’t quite catch what his reply was, but whatever it was made Ngoda laugh out like crazy. At first I thought it was the effect of the alcohol, but the Arab looked extremely serious.
“How’re you selling her so cheap?” Ngoda asked.
Flushing with a mixture of pride and alcohol the Arab whispered, “It’s stolen. I’m a camel smuggler, it’s what I do. And she’s a fine one as my name is Glufsvon Zanzibar.”
I was stunned. Like a scratched CD I kept muttering “No way”, for the next minute much to the surprise of our other companions.
I quickly narrated James’ story and Glufsvon’s eyes grew in wonder. I don’t know if he actually remembered James, but at least he pretended to. And I have to agree with James, Glufsvon is definitely the most wholly remarkable man I’ve ever met. Kenjitsu sensei, camel smuggler, tour guide, pearl diver, fragrance explorer and come to think of it, he did look like a pirate, minus the polly and the scimitar! The rest of the evenings events are irrelevant but oh so interesting. Even as I’m about to land in Bombay, I’m still in shock. I mean what are the odds that two people from two different parts of the world will meet the same person in two different countries in completely uncanny circumstances? Suddenly the universe seems so simple.
I’m writing this on the airplane back from Addis Ababa trying to distract myself from the air hostess with sweaty armpits. The last twenty days have been absolutely brilliant. The most fun I’ve had in a long time. I had landed a voluntary research internship at the University of Addis Ababa with a professor of anthropology and once that was over I managed short trips to Egypt and Tanzania to meet a couple of my friends from college who live there. What happened in Cairo was perhaps one of the funniest and most uncanny experiences of my life…
After two weeks of traversing through disease ridden backward Ethiopia and Tanzania, I decided to visit my friend Ngoda in Cairo and spend a week relaxing before flying back home. If you’ve been to Cairo recently you’ll remember that there’s an oasis not far from the pyramids of Giza. Twenty minutes as the camel runs, it’s usually a fairly desolate place, perfect for hanging out on a lazy Sunday evening. Ngoda and I reached the Oasis at six in the evening, just in time to watch the sun set over the dunes. There weren’t many people at the oasis, so Ngoda and I popped open a couple of chilled beers we had brought along and spread ourselves on the sand enjoying the sweet evening air. As I was getting bored with the scenery, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulders. I turned to see a smiling shabby face of bearded Arab. In perfect English he asked me if I had a light. I threw him a box of matches and watched him as he walked back to his friends under a clump of date trees. Catching my eye, the fellow walked back to us and asked us if we wanted to join them.
The next thing I know, Ngoda and I are sitting in a circle drinking thick Turkish coffee (note: never, ever add camel’s milk to coffee) with three other Arabs smoking a hookah and laughing at the stories they were telling us. I was relieved to find that they all spoke English quite fluently. Ngoda and I swapped a few of our own escapades in return. When the first Arab found out that Ngoda was a local kid, he lowered his tone to a whisper and asked him if he wanted to buy a camel real cheap and he whistled and a beautiful camel came and sat on its knees next to him. Ngoda, who I’m guessing knew his camels, asked him how much he was selling her for. I couldn’t quite catch what his reply was, but whatever it was made Ngoda laugh out like crazy. At first I thought it was the effect of the alcohol, but the Arab looked extremely serious.
“How’re you selling her so cheap?” Ngoda asked.
Flushing with a mixture of pride and alcohol the Arab whispered, “It’s stolen. I’m a camel smuggler, it’s what I do. And she’s a fine one as my name is Glufsvon Zanzibar.”
I was stunned. Like a scratched CD I kept muttering “No way”, for the next minute much to the surprise of our other companions.
I quickly narrated James’ story and Glufsvon’s eyes grew in wonder. I don’t know if he actually remembered James, but at least he pretended to. And I have to agree with James, Glufsvon is definitely the most wholly remarkable man I’ve ever met. Kenjitsu sensei, camel smuggler, tour guide, pearl diver, fragrance explorer and come to think of it, he did look like a pirate, minus the polly and the scimitar! The rest of the evenings events are irrelevant but oh so interesting. Even as I’m about to land in Bombay, I’m still in shock. I mean what are the odds that two people from two different parts of the world will meet the same person in two different countries in completely uncanny circumstances? Suddenly the universe seems so simple.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Dodging .45 Caps in NYC, Part Deux
Unlike Lucas' much awaited Star Wars III, hopefully this second and final installment of "New York Minute" won't be sorely disappointing and riddled with corny dialogues.
When we last met our unassuming hero, he was caught in a crossfire of .45 caps at the basement of NYC's hell-hole - the Port Authority Bus Station...
a short recap to bring you back to the scene:
4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and a overworn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese or Thai, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and askedhim "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"
...END RECAP
The poor Asian gentleman was too scared to react and kept staring at Mr. Dreadlocks. Dreadlocks says, "so you dont have any money huh? I'll show you what money is." and saying so he opens the tote bag he was carrying and starts taking out wads of ten dollar bills (well they looked like $10 bills anyway) and starts placing them on the table. "See, this is what you call money, asshole" He then pushes the Asian gentleman back into his seat, slumps into the closest chair and starts crying. In between sobs he bawls out "What the fuck am I doing here? I'm supposed to in fucking Florida, what the fuck am I doing in NYC surrounded by you assholes!" In the mean time the transit guards have come back and try to appease this dude. For some reason, as if on cue, some dude's 2-in-1 starts playing that oldie Rick Springfield song "Jessie's Girl".
The cops start sweet talking Dreadlocks (interestingly the radio starts playing "Wake me up before you go go"!). The cops tell him "Sir, just take it easy, throw the gun away, stay calm, we'll put u on a bus to florida pronto, just don't do anything rash and all..." Dreadlocks, fortunately decides to acquisce and slides his gun across the table, and the moment he does that, these two cops come in and beat the crap out of the dude with their night sticks...all to the tune of "wake me up before u go go"! It was a pretty insane scene. then they (the cops) take the gun and the money, put it back into the tote bag and took Dreadlocks away...that's the last I got to see these guys.
Then after a while, after all th excitement and adrenalin has subsided, I order some breakfast and try to get back to my book, when this fairly old gentleman, in a gaudy yellowing jacket and and brown sunglasses came and sat opposite me at my table and started dinking my coffee. I noticed that the entire left side of this guys face was burnt and scarred. Before I could react, the man spoke first.
"So you think New York is a dangerous place, huh?" Slightly taken aback, I manage a shrug. "Obviously, you've never been to New Jersey" he continued. "You see these scars on my face? I didn't have these last weekend. I had just come out from a bar last friday night after enjoying a good evening of drinking and I was walking back home when these two muggers cam from behind, stabbed me in the back and threw acid on my face before making off with my wallet." (insert appropriate face of shock) "but these muggers, these muggers I can deal with, the real bastards are the ones who work in government hospitals. When I woke up, i was in this hospital and a couple of days later when they were ready to discharge me, i got my clothes and all back, and guess what, they'd cleaned out my little waist pouch which had all my credit cards and some cash...gone...all empty. but the worst part was, wait, check this..." (he opens the bag he was carrying and takes out a tweed jacket and holds it up and it's been cut quite neatly in two) "...they cut my brand new tweed jacket in half! So i go to the doctor and ask him, why the fuck did he cut my jacket in half? and he says that when i came in i was bleeding profusely and that they had to get the jacket off so he cut it. and i tell him, well if u can't fucking take three buttons off, you shouldn't call yourself a fucking doctor in the first place!" and saying so he picks up what was left of my coffee and bids me good morning and goes off...
I won't describe my reaction. I just quickly finished breakfast and spent the next hour till my bus cam in, in the toilet, trying to get some sleep and generally being safe. Well needless to say I came back to college "shaken but not stirred" and in my unshaven and unclean condition went directly to work (I was still an hour late, but my employeer decided not to dock my pay after she heard my story...)
I know there weren't any lightsabers or starfighters but I'm still working on creating my own brand of merchandise and licensed characters that i can market...
When we last met our unassuming hero, he was caught in a crossfire of .45 caps at the basement of NYC's hell-hole - the Port Authority Bus Station...
a short recap to bring you back to the scene:
4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and a overworn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese or Thai, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and askedhim "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"
...END RECAP
The poor Asian gentleman was too scared to react and kept staring at Mr. Dreadlocks. Dreadlocks says, "so you dont have any money huh? I'll show you what money is." and saying so he opens the tote bag he was carrying and starts taking out wads of ten dollar bills (well they looked like $10 bills anyway) and starts placing them on the table. "See, this is what you call money, asshole" He then pushes the Asian gentleman back into his seat, slumps into the closest chair and starts crying. In between sobs he bawls out "What the fuck am I doing here? I'm supposed to in fucking Florida, what the fuck am I doing in NYC surrounded by you assholes!" In the mean time the transit guards have come back and try to appease this dude. For some reason, as if on cue, some dude's 2-in-1 starts playing that oldie Rick Springfield song "Jessie's Girl".
The cops start sweet talking Dreadlocks (interestingly the radio starts playing "Wake me up before you go go"!). The cops tell him "Sir, just take it easy, throw the gun away, stay calm, we'll put u on a bus to florida pronto, just don't do anything rash and all..." Dreadlocks, fortunately decides to acquisce and slides his gun across the table, and the moment he does that, these two cops come in and beat the crap out of the dude with their night sticks...all to the tune of "wake me up before u go go"! It was a pretty insane scene. then they (the cops) take the gun and the money, put it back into the tote bag and took Dreadlocks away...that's the last I got to see these guys.
Then after a while, after all th excitement and adrenalin has subsided, I order some breakfast and try to get back to my book, when this fairly old gentleman, in a gaudy yellowing jacket and and brown sunglasses came and sat opposite me at my table and started dinking my coffee. I noticed that the entire left side of this guys face was burnt and scarred. Before I could react, the man spoke first.
"So you think New York is a dangerous place, huh?" Slightly taken aback, I manage a shrug. "Obviously, you've never been to New Jersey" he continued. "You see these scars on my face? I didn't have these last weekend. I had just come out from a bar last friday night after enjoying a good evening of drinking and I was walking back home when these two muggers cam from behind, stabbed me in the back and threw acid on my face before making off with my wallet." (insert appropriate face of shock) "but these muggers, these muggers I can deal with, the real bastards are the ones who work in government hospitals. When I woke up, i was in this hospital and a couple of days later when they were ready to discharge me, i got my clothes and all back, and guess what, they'd cleaned out my little waist pouch which had all my credit cards and some cash...gone...all empty. but the worst part was, wait, check this..." (he opens the bag he was carrying and takes out a tweed jacket and holds it up and it's been cut quite neatly in two) "...they cut my brand new tweed jacket in half! So i go to the doctor and ask him, why the fuck did he cut my jacket in half? and he says that when i came in i was bleeding profusely and that they had to get the jacket off so he cut it. and i tell him, well if u can't fucking take three buttons off, you shouldn't call yourself a fucking doctor in the first place!" and saying so he picks up what was left of my coffee and bids me good morning and goes off...
I won't describe my reaction. I just quickly finished breakfast and spent the next hour till my bus cam in, in the toilet, trying to get some sleep and generally being safe. Well needless to say I came back to college "shaken but not stirred" and in my unshaven and unclean condition went directly to work (I was still an hour late, but my employeer decided not to dock my pay after she heard my story...)
I know there weren't any lightsabers or starfighters but I'm still working on creating my own brand of merchandise and licensed characters that i can market...
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Dodging .45 Caps in NYC, Part 1
Well the semester has seen a fair amount of snow storms, sloth and other vices that go with extreme cold. Apart from a remarkable night in New York City, the details of which I have stated below, and a rather arbitrary weekend at Tufts University at Boston, the semester has been pretty straight forward, actually not that straight-forward, but not as crazy as Stephanian times.
On the first day (a saturday) of Spring Break, dad called and told me that one of his friends would be flying to San Francisco via New York and that I should meet this gentleman at JFK on Thursday night. come Wednesday I'm all set to go to the city, when my dad calls in the evening and informs me that the above mentioned gentleman would now be flying in on the following Sunday instead.
Saturday night I find out that there is a certain chap on campus who was going to be driving down to NYC on Sunday morning. Naturally I decided to hitch a ridewith him. This guy tells me that we'll leave at 11 am on Sunday. I was fine with that since the before mentioned gentleman's flight was supposed to come in at 5:30 and NYC is only about 4 hours away from college.
Sunday: (I'll do the rest in an itenary format tospeed things up, this keyboard sucks!)
As asked, I show up at my ride's room at 11, only to be told that it was in fact his brother who would becoming in from Yale to pick us up and drive us to the city and that his brother was not here yet.
12 pm: his brother turns up in a spanking new fuel guzzling Nissan SUV and we set off and I promtly fall asleep in the back seat.
2 pm: I wake up and look around and notice a rather large board saying "Welcome to Whitestown, Pennsylvania". I panic. "Dude, aren't we going to the city?" I inquire. "Yeah we are but my parents just called and they want me to return the SUV to them, so we'll take my truck from home and then go to the city." my friend replies.
3 pm: I am cramped in the tiny utility seat in the back of a Chevy Truck and we're headed towards NYC. They smoke a joint en route.
6 pm: We reach the outskirts of NYC in a a place called Beacon and my friend stops the truck outside the railway station and tells me to take the train from here to the city since he was not going to drive any further since he was going to go to a friend's place here.
7:30 pm: the freaking train takes an hour and a half to reach grnd central. I get onto a bus for JFK
8:00 pm: I'm in JFK. Obviously the fore mentioned gentleman is no longer waiting for me. I call dad and find out which hotel he's staying in and go there. I've never met this guy before in my life, but it turns out that he was pretty chilled and all. He gave me some money dad had sent and my plane tickets to fly back home. He asks me if I wanted to spend the night here or go back to college. Since I was working the next day, I decided to go back and took the West bound subway to the bus station at Port Authority.
9:45 pm; I reach Port Authority in time to miss the last bus to Utica by 15 minutes. The next bus is at 7 in the morning. I have from 10pm at night till 6 in the morning to kill. I decide to go to Broadway.
I'm at Broadway, outside a theatre playing "The Lion King". They're sold out. Fortunately or unfortunately, I find a shady dude scalping ticketsfor the show close-by. I pay an exorbitant amount towatch the show, which was awesome (the show that is, not the exorbitant amount)!
1 am: I wander into the Laughter House to watch comedian Kathie Lee perform. She's terrible...house-wife humour. I walk out an hour later. I wonder why I stayed so long.
2am: the only kind of people on NYC at this time were drunks, black chain gangs and 24 hour chinese food delivery people. I decide to head back to the bus station.
3 am: I'm sitting at the cafeteria downstairs of the bus station, trying to read "Brighter Than a Thousand Suns" when I and some other people in the cafe realize that the woman sitting next to me was trying to commit suicide. This lady was a diabetic in her late 50s or early 60s I would guess and her preferred method of dying was tearing open sugar sachets and pouring the contents into her mouth. How did we find out? Well, we noticed that there was a rather unusually large heap of empty sugar satchets on her table, maybe about forty or fifty and when one of the cafe staff guys tried to ask her what she was upto, something flipped in her head and she started cursing, flailing her arms about and screaming "let me fucking die the way I want to, what the fuck is your problem?" Finally the transit guards showed up and managed to take her away.
3:30 am: The earlier events well behind us, the cafe is back into it's lethargic late night mode. there are a few homeless drunks sleeping on the floor, or Hispanic labourers with their families curiously looking at the shoes on display at one of the closed shops. Things were pretty quiet.
4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and an over worn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one, except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and asked him "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"...
[I'll leave it at this cliffhanger...will Maity escape with his life or will he succumb and become just another New York crime statistic, find out in the next episode of "Days of Our Lives"]
On the first day (a saturday) of Spring Break, dad called and told me that one of his friends would be flying to San Francisco via New York and that I should meet this gentleman at JFK on Thursday night. come Wednesday I'm all set to go to the city, when my dad calls in the evening and informs me that the above mentioned gentleman would now be flying in on the following Sunday instead.
Saturday night I find out that there is a certain chap on campus who was going to be driving down to NYC on Sunday morning. Naturally I decided to hitch a ridewith him. This guy tells me that we'll leave at 11 am on Sunday. I was fine with that since the before mentioned gentleman's flight was supposed to come in at 5:30 and NYC is only about 4 hours away from college.
Sunday: (I'll do the rest in an itenary format tospeed things up, this keyboard sucks!)
As asked, I show up at my ride's room at 11, only to be told that it was in fact his brother who would becoming in from Yale to pick us up and drive us to the city and that his brother was not here yet.
12 pm: his brother turns up in a spanking new fuel guzzling Nissan SUV and we set off and I promtly fall asleep in the back seat.
2 pm: I wake up and look around and notice a rather large board saying "Welcome to Whitestown, Pennsylvania". I panic. "Dude, aren't we going to the city?" I inquire. "Yeah we are but my parents just called and they want me to return the SUV to them, so we'll take my truck from home and then go to the city." my friend replies.
3 pm: I am cramped in the tiny utility seat in the back of a Chevy Truck and we're headed towards NYC. They smoke a joint en route.
6 pm: We reach the outskirts of NYC in a a place called Beacon and my friend stops the truck outside the railway station and tells me to take the train from here to the city since he was not going to drive any further since he was going to go to a friend's place here.
7:30 pm: the freaking train takes an hour and a half to reach grnd central. I get onto a bus for JFK
8:00 pm: I'm in JFK. Obviously the fore mentioned gentleman is no longer waiting for me. I call dad and find out which hotel he's staying in and go there. I've never met this guy before in my life, but it turns out that he was pretty chilled and all. He gave me some money dad had sent and my plane tickets to fly back home. He asks me if I wanted to spend the night here or go back to college. Since I was working the next day, I decided to go back and took the West bound subway to the bus station at Port Authority.
9:45 pm; I reach Port Authority in time to miss the last bus to Utica by 15 minutes. The next bus is at 7 in the morning. I have from 10pm at night till 6 in the morning to kill. I decide to go to Broadway.
I'm at Broadway, outside a theatre playing "The Lion King". They're sold out. Fortunately or unfortunately, I find a shady dude scalping ticketsfor the show close-by. I pay an exorbitant amount towatch the show, which was awesome (the show that is, not the exorbitant amount)!
1 am: I wander into the Laughter House to watch comedian Kathie Lee perform. She's terrible...house-wife humour. I walk out an hour later. I wonder why I stayed so long.
2am: the only kind of people on NYC at this time were drunks, black chain gangs and 24 hour chinese food delivery people. I decide to head back to the bus station.
3 am: I'm sitting at the cafeteria downstairs of the bus station, trying to read "Brighter Than a Thousand Suns" when I and some other people in the cafe realize that the woman sitting next to me was trying to commit suicide. This lady was a diabetic in her late 50s or early 60s I would guess and her preferred method of dying was tearing open sugar sachets and pouring the contents into her mouth. How did we find out? Well, we noticed that there was a rather unusually large heap of empty sugar satchets on her table, maybe about forty or fifty and when one of the cafe staff guys tried to ask her what she was upto, something flipped in her head and she started cursing, flailing her arms about and screaming "let me fucking die the way I want to, what the fuck is your problem?" Finally the transit guards showed up and managed to take her away.
3:30 am: The earlier events well behind us, the cafe is back into it's lethargic late night mode. there are a few homeless drunks sleeping on the floor, or Hispanic labourers with their families curiously looking at the shoes on display at one of the closed shops. Things were pretty quiet.
4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and an over worn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one, except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and asked him "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"...
[I'll leave it at this cliffhanger...will Maity escape with his life or will he succumb and become just another New York crime statistic, find out in the next episode of "Days of Our Lives"]
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