Flirting with my Dreams

Two weeks of romance and I am already fed up. Fuck romance. I will get straight to this one. NO dangling the carrot around this time. Mumbai is the most disgusting city I have ever set a foot in. Not because of the population density, not because of the trains. No. It is the larger than life image of this place that does not seem to fit into what this place actually is. Moreover, my hatred has quite a lot to do with the inopportune things that have happened to me, dare I say, by God's grace. I have not been to Delhi or Bangalore or any other metro, barring Kolkata and come what may, and I do not care if you turn into a fuck-face, but I would prefer the City of Joy to the city that apparently never sleeps.


I hope I was able to create that intensity and it should last through the rest of the reading. I arrived in Mumbai on 16th of this month, with a sweetheart. And yes, it was the City of Joy that was our place of departure. Everything is fine, until the moment I step into the IIT. Guwahati used to be a different place. The first thing that hits you here is the urgency of carrying the college i-card. I did not have one. Mudit Jain, the reason why I am able to write this peacefully (if i am at peace), forgot to give me one. The next questions were "Who is the mess manager and the hall manager?" "I do not know." Mudit interferes, "A student from an IIT should not bother with these details." "Dude, i have been here for the past 35 years, and I know who is a genuine student", says the security personnel. I was about to admit the reason why this conversation was taking place, when he himself suggested to enter from the other side. A relieved yours truly walks out, takes the spare i-card and, like a proud peacock, struts into the IIT flashing the proxy i-card like a US Marshall. Mumbai had presented both its faces.


Then begins the massive hunt. For an accommodation, since the proxy i-card is not possibly going to hold me for long. Fortunately for me, and my readers, they are a bit foolish and I have been a tad lucky. Once my urge for checking my email got the better of me, and I asked the security for the keys to the common room. He asked for the i-card and began asking questions. I kept answering with a poker face. He asked me to fill in the details, which I did not remember, and as a proof of my originality, I scribbled things into the register without caring. I went into the computer room, only to realize that I needed to have a proxy user name and password to access. Fucked. I went back to and before collecting my i-card, I happened to see the register and observed that the stuff I wrote was neatly struck off and the correct details were overwritten. I was numb. He handed me the card and as I was leaving, called me and looked at me, as if memorizing my face. For the next 48 hrs, the only thought that was trying to find a way out of my clogged brain was the possible consequence of the authorities finding out that I was an impersonator. Jail. The second instance was when I was tired, absolutely, and decided to take a rickshaw to the campus, partly because I did not want to go through the regular i-card-flashing routine. The guard stops, demands the card, I give it to him, he replies with the fact that the card has expired, and I say that I am staying for another couple of days. Bingo. And here I am, spewing harted for this city.


Coming back to the massive roof-hunt. I must admit that this place is the most over-priced  in the country, if not the planet. 1 bhk will set you back by twenty five grand per month. This is not reasonable, and I know that my readers (i assume are reasonable) will not differ. Example: I went to see a place in Worli. On the sixth floor, overlooking the sea, but approximately 120 sq ft. Three seats were available for rent, the fourth being the elderly lady. Each tenant had to pay 10k. And the one thing that they kept repeating was, "Humare pass paise ki kami nahi hai, humara beta to US mein petrol pump chalata hai." Fuck US, and fuck the petrol pump. I think I have lost the capacity of narrating these and similar anecdotes, or parables rather.


Shifting gears, it is the loss of a precious watch, given to me by a special one that has goaded me into writing this pointless philippic. The very first day when I boarded a bus, I decided to lodge a complaint with the conductor. What happened was that before I could, and many like me could, set both their feet on the bus, the driver pressed the accelerator. Not that someone was injured, but I would not call it responsible driving. The other person complained and was bullied by the conductor. The pot calling the kettle black. That was ghastly. What happened today was even more sudden. I had just caught hold of the two handle bars, when the bus started to move. There were people still on the stairs and there was no way I could have got onto the bus. I kept running with the bus and only after 7 steps could i set one foot onto the stairs. Fine. People say this is the "fast" and typically Mumbaikar life. The exact same sequence followed when I was leaving for my room. But this time, there was a mob that was behind me, and somwhere in the race to set my foot on the bus first, I lost my watch. I saw it falling onto the ground, and kept watching it, helplessly. I could not have gotten out of the bus, neither could I have got my watch back. Shit happens. This is the Mumbai style. I had heard a lot about the honesty and simplicity of the Marathis and the Mumbaikars. Probably this vanished when someone decided to steal the umbrella from my bag while travelling in the local. I never had such an experience in Bihar, and then there are stories about Biharis.


Agreed, Mumbai is a busy place for small town people like me. Agreed that Mumbai is not the only place with an infrastucture crunch and above all, Mumbai is a place that probably never sleeps. But this does not give the bus drivers the license to get the bus speeding at their whim. The trainman cannot see the 12 coaches, but the bus driver can. And as a public servant, it is required of him to drive responsibly. Secondly, I have travelled in a local train and have the opinion that if the passengers try and alight or board the train, or the bus alike, in a orderly way, it will take approximately the same time compared to when there is such a hullaballoo. At least, you will not risk others' lives by goading them to jump from the moving train and push them out if they do not. There are examples of much bigger cities with similar city scapes and pace, but a more civilized society. But again, Mumbai is not one of them.


Mumbai is the city of dreams, and with this initial impression, I do not think I prefer dreams to JOY.

Cometh the hour, Cometh the woman.

I am on a writing spree, though only virtually. Exactly '0' is the number of drafts that I have left as "to be published". Besides, I have been thoughtless since I don't know how long...probably it was the days of October in the year of 2010 that my creative juices last flowed. But this is not my problem. What vexes me now is that nobody has been getting an opportunity to say a word of praise  regarding my writing skills. The only testimony that might go against this is the latest Humanities exam that I took and managed to score, I must admit, by God's grace, a 10, even after not answering one of the five questions. I decided to dig deeper because the same teacher had plainly declared that the outcome of that indiscretion would reflect in my grades. The only other persons who scored a ten were the only other persons to have witnessed the striptease. I got my answer.

For those whom I forgot to mention the striptease, here goes the description.

I am a buoyant person, for I have gotten a job with Deloitte as a management consultant. I am a joyous person, for I have gotten another offer from Samsung. I am an ecstatic person, for I have scored more than I could have ever imagined. But I am a little nervous, for I have been allotted the course on literature, and the professor designated to take the same is none other than the one whom I had publicly bashed for the inappropriate course structure and her ineptitude to take the course, previously. The first day passed off without any sparks. The professor did not come to take the class.

Six classes and the similar outcome. But, cometh the hour, cometh the woman. She was there on the seventh day, in a nicely fitting dress.  The class began with an ugly smile, as is her wont. After sometime of fawning at her adopted son, the class was declared open. When I say open, it means she started speaking, and spitting, simultaneously, and so vigorously, that it was difficult for a pacific man like me to understand if her purpose was to spit of to speak.  Anyhow, the session continues and the endless mocking sessions involving the three of us, and that were to continue throughout the semester, commenced. After some moments of reckless  talking, she declared the class closed, citing the lack of attendance. Fine.

What was to ensue predicates the cruelty of the providence. During the course of the lecture, the laces in her pyjamas apparently slithered away form each other, unwinding in the process, and the innocent, hapless nymph that she was, could not notice that ill-construed escapade of those barbarous laces. As she pushed the door, the unintentional force that she had applied, apparently got transferred to her pyjamas and they fell. 

They Fell. Without a thud. She could not notice. She kept on walking. They replaced her socks. She noticed. Her hands felt just like two balloons (that means Comfortably Numb as Pink Floyd would it). She had dropped her belongings, including the pyjamas. We laughed. We made an about-turn. We kept laughing. She was staring, blankly. The other classes ended. A flood of students suddenly appeared. She was drowned in that human sea. Some noticed and kept staring. Other pretended to look away. One man felt morally corrupt. He ran up to her. Gathered her belongings. She felt a shock. Came back to this world. Realized her state. Gathered herself and her pyjamas. Took the possession of her stuff. Walked away. The lace still untied. The pyjama still at the mercy of those whimsical hands that had tied them in the morning, probably, and refused to now.

Here, the episode does not end. In the next class, only I was present, besides some new faces. She came and the first thing she "spat" was that she had a terrible accident the other day. The newer faces were flummoxed. I was caught in a fix. I could not laugh. She was staring at me, while she repeated the accident thing thrice over. I could not decide whether to agree or to disagree. Agreeing would have implied that I knew what had happened and saw her in her state of "bliss", and was so morally corrupt that I laughed and walked away instead of helping her. Disagreeing would have meant that I was denying what I had seen, since I her stare the other day had definitely caught me laughing. I avoided her gaze.

Now, coming back to the writing spree, I answered every question in the aforementioned exam in more than 1500 words, some of them in 2000, and by this virtue missed my last answer. How paradoxical for a man on a writing spree to miss an opportunity of writing! Taking cue from my comrade-in-crime, started the answer and left the first sentence incomplete, ending with three consecutive dots.

I was on a writing spree.

Sonnet VII

And ere I put my thought to words,
And put to light the days obscure,
 I pray to thee, O Muses, pure
At heart, to free like flying birds,
My spirit. Guide me through the maze
Of verse, in prose I find it sour
To sum up seasons eighty four.
And ere I think of myriad ways
Of form, of theme, of character,
To intertwine with grace my wit,
A storm brews up. I'm caught betwixt
Those williams four, Milton's splendor
And Chaucer's pace. With troubled mind,
I set to write and truth to find.

Sonnet VI: Dirge for the Author

 Confessor in me, with the breaking dawn
Agreed solemnly, it was days of yore
When last it screamed of the days that were gone
By, inditing works on grudges galore.

Pat I put the pen on paper,
Proudly penning the prose on pulp,
Picking pretty piquant pieces,
Painting prickly pictures profuse.

But each word failed and crashed each verse
And reeked of rot, of boredom stank
Twice it was I tried to rehearse
And twice I choked, and twice was blank.

When I realized of the void in my store,

“Fuck you!” I said, “I’m not going to write anymore.”

Love and the Bull's Eye.

Who would have thought of proposing to a girl-friend in the red light of an electronic mosquito repellent? My dear friend did. Who would have thought of a blind night to be romantic? My dear friend, again. The other day I was talking to his girl-friend, and she was making insanely stupid jokes about him. Who would have thought that her boy-friend was a douche-bag? She did. And who would have gone on writing untrue stuff about people who are not, relationships that have not yet begun? I would, and I am, in fact writing about one. Both of them are supposed to hail from my home town, and study in the southern part of the country. Now begins the story.

He has had the habit of falling in love with every other girl that happens to talk to him. I have tried to explain to him that such things only result in frustrating phone calls. No avail. But this chick happens to have caught his fantasy for good. He has stopped talking about any other girl. He has stopped falling in love. They say, a woman only desires to be a man's last romance and I think this chick has arguably achieved that, even though there is a difference between love and romance. He once said to me that while he is a lion when dealing with others, he can perform no better than chicken shit while talking to her. I told him this might have something to do with the relative sizes. He declines and I have not seen her. He has been talking a lot since the day he went to meet her. Talking to her and then talking to me. Dude, you have issues, and serious ones.

She...I don't know much about (even though she is supposed to be my creation). I have been talking to her just for the sake of it. He asked me to send her an invite on a social networking website, and I did. Then on, she has constantly wasted her telephone bills, talking to me, and has eaten up a sizable chunk of my pocket money. I don't call him, as I prefer talking to her. Girls have always been the perfect bait. Yeah, she asked me to write about this stuff, her love story, which I know not much about, and the Bull's eye. Through all these chats that we have had, one thing I know for sure is that she likes him. She likes me as well, and that is not new for me. Everyone does. So I am not able to say whether I will be writing about Him and Her, or about Her and I.

First, there are some strange things about their romance that I should not refrain from mentioning here. Second, there are stranger things I have told the either, that I think I should not skip. Now, they have been seeing each other "virtually" since I don't know how many years. I don't even remember when was it that He first told me about Her. Perhaps sometime in the October of 2008. I often had verbal duels with her then, and He was always unsupportive of that. Without expressly stating is dislike for my statements, He always showed a bend towards hers. And then in the fall of 2009, crash and bang. He says "his heart is no longer his". Crap! Dude make these obtuse statements to your "sweetheart princess", and not me. December, and he makes a visit to her place. February it is that they realize that something needs to be fixed. And for some mysterious reasons, they still refrain from direct communication. I am the unfortunate catalyst, who sacrifices himself. Not for any gain, for loss...of both of the girl and himself. The catalyst properties only hasten the process.

She came to my terms sometime in the spring of 2009. She realized the true potential that I had, as a prospective partner in her romance. I called her first in the month of April. He did not like it, and then reminded me of Shakespeare and April and Shakespeare and human ingratitude. In the summer of the same year, he starts writing a blog. He writes about her, and passes on to me. I disapprove. He goes on to write about her again sometime in the future. They start talking to each other. She tells me about His lion and chicken shit talk and  I have to act as if I don't know. I am good at that (acting, I mean). By the fall of the year, both realize that they like each other and there is an increasing volume of content about this in the chats that I have with them. Like a true friend, I had to undergo this pitiful passage of time. December, he sees her after a long time. He becomes nostalgic and for me, it is time again to...you understand.

He always acts as if to prove that he is a chicken shit, and she always acts as if to justify that he actually is the chicken shit. He  thinks that the red light of the mosquito repellent in a blind night is the most romantic thing in the world, laughs at her lamest jokes, approves of the wildest things that she has to say, agrees to every statement she makes, irrespective of whether it is a sarcasm directed towards Him, refuses to see that she is making merry while spanking his arse, and thinks that with every word of hers, she hits the Bull's eye. She is "too good" for his wits I guess. She, for her part, thinks that he is the most dumb-ass lover she can get, and is still more than happy to court him, makes fun of his statements, dreams of "mosquito-repellent-red-light dinners", throws direct hints about her fondness for him, which he, on his part, fails to pick, smuggles stuff she is not supposed to read from me, and pretends she has not read it, and enjoys every joke that I make about their liaison. He openly declares her love for her on his blog, and when I mention about the same, he fumes. She openly declares her love for him and is displeased that he does not reciprocate. I write obvious remarks which she agrees with. He is afraid of commitment and she thinks of the famous Mughl-e-Azam song.

What I do is laugh, at what I have written about: them, their love story, at the red light, the douche-bag, chicken shit boyfriend, the Bull's eye and that fact that obvious is always obvious.

The Bull is not a wall and the eye is not just another brick in that wall, Mr. A. So don't you think that Miss A can hit the Bull's eye with every statement of hers. And even if she does, then indeed one does not need to be "too good" to do that.

A Few Stat(e)s.

And before I could realize anything, I see myself tearing my hair. The distress cannot get worse. I wrote something on my Facebook wall, the other day. In a bid to justify that he was not one of the league, he just forgot what he was commenting on. I had written about Facebook status and the smart Alec. And what he commented, had me in convulsions. Some people never change. For some, a change in what one is, is, it seems, simply equivalent to a change in what one tries to project oneself as. For some, this magnitude becomes so huge that they almost instantaneously become oblivious of the fact that they are the integral elements of the mix. Everyone forgets. I forgot, the other day.

It so happens, that in search of a childhood sweetheart, I join this social networking website. I had refrained from creating an account for the same reasons, all these years, for the reason that I would have to see un-intelligent updates of some really "aware" and some other "witty" "facepeople". Come on, what crap! You have your issues, sort them out yourself. The world did not create social networking for people to start preaching stuff about, say "LOVE" or perhaps the "formulae for success". Neither was the wall created for some "nostalgic" friend to write some insanely stupid remark about memories we are "supposed" to share and time we spent together. If you have some song that you like, you can simply, and very lucidly, state that you like this song, instead of, after an intense period of brainstorming, "intelligently" selecting the "catchiest" line in the whole song, as the status. And just because you are yourself bored with the kind of networking when there is no one to instigate any kind of activity from your side, so that, when people inquire of the thing, you make yourself look like a fool revealing the truth. By the way, you won't get any smarter by "cut, copy pasting" some old adage. Neither does writing everything in the "trendy, hip" shortened form, nor does writing "fuck" or any other distorted form of it make you any more interesting, or say, slapstick than you actually are. Oh! And the guitar with that pose in which you hold it, try at least faking some chord, otherwise it is plain enough for even an arse to make out that you are making a fool of yourself. So just piss off.

I shall write the entire thing. I wrote about the status and the smart Alec. I wrote it immediately after he smartly posted something. He gives another smart reply. Wait, I can just "copy, paste" the stuff. It is there at the bottom of this post, all credits to my inability to put it at the place it should have been. 

One of my friends just deleted his account, to prevent himself from the curse of this, and the even "smarter" things happening. I was smart there too; in that conversation did you see that? Anyway, I am out of this now. I am, now, too tired to even want to write anything. But, one thing I want to write about is the audacity I showed the other day. We were waiting at the bus-stop. The bus had already left 3 minutes before its scheduled time. We unfortunately, were once again the hapless participants in this divine act of uber-punctuality. Anyhow, after waiting for, like 30 minutes, and waiting till 5 minutes after the scheduled time, all the while getting grumpy about the drivers, we see the bus. In an instinctive surge of emotions, I point towards my wrist, looking at the driver, fully aware of the fact that he is reciprocating my glance. He passes a dry chuckle. I freeze, then and there. That was that.

Another thing I want to write about, or may be put forth as a question, is the number of hours that one cannot speak anything, not think of anything, and all the while, not do anything. I did that for almost 12 hrs the other day and then again 3 hrs recently. Digression. My supervisor made a joke about Bihar and not flying over its airspace, and I reciprocated it with childhood picnics and rabindra sangeet. Even Steven. I was supposed to get my payment today, and I apparently got 300 euro less. The "taai" (read the secretary) did her bit to make sure that I got my travel reimbursements. For the last three days, not one of the three of us is doing anything constructive for the project. We have stopped thinking about the stuff that we had arrived here with the intention of working on from day one. The group is on the verge of knowing the fact that I have done nothing and know nothing about computer.

We went to Belgium the other weekend. I did not get time to talk of my travels. That was the most enjoyable trip. Correction. That could have been the most enjoyable trip. First, we miss the early morning train. Next, we reach Brussels at noon. We leave the most bustling city that I had seen in Europe within three hours, for some douche-bag, who was coming with the intention of roaming around in Belgium and The Netherlands at 2pm, in Brussels. The douche-bag does not arrive. I upgrade him. You can always ask about the new rank that I assigned to him. We reach Bruges. Wonderful city. We roam around. Go to a park to catch up with some embarrassing Indian cultural stuff. Then there is this immensely effective psychedelic stuff, followed by Dum Maro Dum on the trumpets. I feel elated. We leave Belgium without visiting the Atomium, and many other places that we knew existed but did not care to bother about. We roam around in the station. We watch a boring football match, and howl in the train, sitting on the floor. We reach Amsterdam at 1in the morning. The Sri-Lankan...ok, what happens in Amsterdam, stays in Amsterdam. We meet the douche bag in the district, gazing at the canals. We sleep on the streets, and have a hard time finding the I AMSTERDAM. The douche bag has to leave and that has basically screwed up our schedule. We leave Amsterdam at 10 am. Reach at our place and sleep.

The next weekend, we had to go to Paris. The people in the lab made dirty jokes about that. We did not get reservations. We somehow reach Paris at noon. We see the Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Concord, the Sacre Coeur, the Moulin Rouge, the play-off for the third place, the Eiffel, the five ugly girls of our institute with another douche-bag and a sardar. We sleep and wake up at 10:30 in the morning. Take the train to Amsterdam and reach "I AMSTERDAM", this time quite easily, to cheer for the Oranje. We are stuffed amongst the white and the black, the dopers and the smokers and other ugly people. We leave the match to reach back home, Oranje lose, we find our way through rivers of urine, reach our place at 3:30 in the morning, give a presentation for, where I keep talking for 1 hour, when I was supposed to talk for 10 mins, work and then sleep. Did I tell, that was the Friday when I wrote about the Lepidus.

The supervisor realizes that nothing is going to come out of this project. We work on a Sunday. I mean, they work and chat. No results. We are invited to the dinner at our supervisor's. Nice food they served. We are next invited to a friend's (Bram's) place, remember the fat clown I mentioned in one of the posts? We are supposed to be the hosts, and prepare the dinner for what became 9 people, when it was supposed to be 4. I play the guitar after three months, and it feels nice to see my hands still flowing on the piece of wood and strings. Oh! Saturday, we the people of Maanstraat 73, (my place) went for a barbecue, where we did not barbecue anything, swam in the lake, fooled around, and came back. But it was a nice evening. Bram's was nicer. Today, we decided to cook with the Nepalese, for the flat mates. We, oh! Please read they, cooked kheer, chawal, daal, aaloo and roti (readymade), and we had some beer as well. Nice evening again.

I have been sleeping on the couch for, I don't know how long. It is time for me to sleep. Till the next post, haven fun. Cheers to this "socially networked" "facelife".

What Crap!

Vivek Sharma Status and smart alecs.

Sunday at 13:06 · Comment · 

Ambuj Singh

i feel most f da facepeople here have masters in dis trade!!or i dunno y dey try to show dat dey are born wid a superior gene?a big question comes to min "why?"

Sunday at 14:51 ·  · 

Vivek Sharma

like you said, you need balls to figure that out, if you get what i mean ;)

Sunday at 14:55 ·  · 

Ambuj Singh

i guess u just need more dan balls to find da effing thought process:)

Sunday at 15:02 ·  · 

Vivek Sharma

then i guess you won't ever be able to find your "EFFING" thoughts...once again, if i am not cryptic ;)

Sunday at 15:04 ·  · 

Ambuj Singh

depends may b diamond fr sm1 or just a stone fr da layman!!!!!! hope u also get da secre behind so cald"effing" thoughts...no pun intended....

Sunday at 15:09 ·  · 

Vivek Sharma

pardon me my wits, but if i got that, it would not be fitting to call it a secret. would you mind explaining the diamonds and the stones ???

Sunday at 15:14 ·  · 

Ambuj Singh

i dont think i run a chapel to burn sm1 else thot process... again secret is only till itz understood by sm1..den itz upto u.. after dat da consequences depends on da particular!!! n az far az diff. between diamond n stone iz concernd..!!itz relly hard to b a diamond in dis rhinestone world..being smart smtimes seems daffy..no doubt it still seems attractive:)

Sunday at 15:22 ·  · 

Vivek Sharma

‎1) i never said that
2) convolution
3) :D

Sunday at 15:28 ·  · 

Ambuj Singh

i guess convulSION wd b wat u want to say...my motive waz never 2 correct ur spelling mistake fr nw... bt just feel da metaphor:))... thn may b wd b my fault interpreting u n bt evn dere's a chance that u have a facade thot...no offence;)))

Sunday at 16:34 ·  · 

Vivek Sharma

‎1) i wrote what i wanted to
2) even then, the situation you put me in satisfies what you suggested
3) convulsion (laughter)
4) i have difficulty in making out shortened expressions
5) what's is a facade thought (is it thought?)

Sunday at 16:41 ·  · 

Ambuj Singh

‎5) depends!!!!can evn b an oxymoron.... 4)sure 3)sure 2)thanx 4)da world iz urs.....write it or rub it;)

Sunday at 17:54 ·  · 

Vivek Sharma

‎4) you start sharing the world once you start communicating with someone. So the world is not JUST YOURS. Cleaning up the mess is always good though.


where are you nowadays?

Sunday at 20:25 ·  · 

Ambuj Singh

‎5)yupa agree..but i guess dere are certain limits...n evn smart moves never say "show da ace"..bcz if itz done people gonna dig ur a $#... nywaz... well fr nw at bhagalpur.. n m pursuing ma grad. in techie at bbsr!!!..wat abt u?

Monday at 05:41 ·  · 

Vivek Sharma

guwahati....4th year engg.

Monday at 12:07 ·  · 

Ambuj Singh

great...well saw netherlands written over dere?up fr internship or is it some exchange programme or smthing?

Monday at 13:26 ·  · 

Vivek Sharma

internship.

Monday at 16:21 ·  · 

Sonnet V

Petrarchan verse, I tried to write,

When Milton's words I read, contrite.

The English verse then followed suit,

With sonnets four, that wrought no fruit.

And then I tried to mix them all,

Composing lines, every nightfall.

Struggling with the metre and forms,

And trying hard to stick to norms,

I seek some help, my teacher, from.

And when she spoke, she spoke a psalm.

She asked me my own words to sing.

And free myself of what has been.

Enlightenment. A halo bright.

Unfettered, I'll, my own verse, write.

Sonnet IV

Embittered, alas, mine heart, doth regret.
Why, say, I beseech, eynes smothered in rheum
What reason maketh your mind, of this prune
Disdain? Did thou, all that thou swore, forget?
Selfless, oh! my love profound, begets none
Of thine. So, tell me, priceless, durst thou not
Upright to thyself be. Now know I not
How not to loathe your heart, the heart of stone.
Benighted, haply I conceive, sweven,
A Spell, blithe and blissful. Then in my mind
Methinks, I crave for your embrace, and fain.
And wherefore bemoans mine blunted reason,
The bygone? Love is no love when doth find
Hate, with passing time. Love it is, not pain.
 

The Usual Ranting.

I think I made a massive mistake. I could have abandoned the idea of a euro trip in the favor of attending my sister’s marriage.

I am bored of everything that Europe has to offer. Call it indifference towards anything that is vintage, picturesque or grand; call it indifference towards the excitement of the city centers, the air of the narrow cobbled streets, old buildings, museums (I have been to none, though). Whatever. No matter how grand or nice or picturesque a place is, you can't keep enjoying it forever. I can't. I have been to Rotterdam, the city with perhaps the most striking architecture in the Netherlands, I have been to the Hague and the famous beach, the grand buildings, I have seen the most picturesque sceneries on this planet, Swiss Alps and the famous lakes, the crazily expensive Zurich, the quiet Interlaken and the bubbling Lucerne, I have seen perhaps the best example of Gothic architecture, the Kolner Cathedral and the best mix of past and the modern in city of the eau de cologne, Koln. I have climbed to the top of Europe, and witnessed the snowfall in the Alps. I have seen the unbelievably high price tags, be it food items or anything, and i have eaten burgers for 1 euro as well. I have walked with the rough Germans, the suave French, the chic Italians, the cheerful Dutch and the omnipresent Chinks and Bhartiyas. I have been labeled a Sri Lankan myself, thanks to some of my friends. I have had the first taste of beer as well, and the first experience of a football match in the Swiss bar. I have rubbed shoulders cheering for the Dutch Oranje, and rubbed the dishes trying to have a clean container for my food. I have...what not.

I am late. Five days.

I wonder why I never talk of work on this blog. I have come to this sex capital for gaining a global exposure…and the fortune that is, I am here in the university, doing nothing but justifying the theory that a European internship is nothing more than a free euro trip. I have the advantage of poor communicators as the project partners, and that gives me the required amount of space to express my involvement to the supervisor. All I do is guzzle cups and cups of hot chocolate, use the free, fast internet, pretend to be working the entire time, some smooth talking and bingo…you have 700 Euros in your pocket every month. The only aberration is that I have barely received 300, and the second month comes to a close. The disadvantage is that you have a topper as your co-researcher, and a very sincere, but overly expressive and unnecessarily (ir)responsible friend as the roommate. The apartment is completely Asian, and the head tenant is pissed off with the fact that we have not paid the rent for the month of June when we promised to do so in the first week. The secretaries in the university, who are supposed to help us get out payments are on leave half of the days and when they are present they, in their loose blouses and tight trousers, forget they are supposed to work and not just banter around foolishly. Not to mention that they more often than not forget their age. The couple of Indians who we met here are all jerks…no, let’s elevate them to being douche-bags. The city shuts down 6pm sharp everyday and I cannot even roam around in the market place. I had to buy those ugly shoes that day, partly because of the relatively cheaper tag that it was carrying. Someone told me I should get a girl here. Phew!!!

The weather is getting uglier with every progressing hour. The temperatures are touching 27 and the humidity is rising. Unbearable. But I have to write about the trip to Switzerland. The horn was blown on Thursday, which normally should have been a Friday evening. Thursday it was when we went out to the Centrum, in hope of seeing some good shops in the market place and some attractive faces as well. But again, and this time I myself am tired of writing this time and again, due to the fellow researchers, we only managed to reach the market at around 7:45. The market closes 8:30. All we can pull of is a decent Canon camera for Manoj, a pair of FILA shoes for me and nothing for Mudit. I was looking for some cheap music player but could not find one. Then we had a massive debate about middle class mentality, two on one debate with absurd points being raised, (I was fighting alone) like Wagon R being a status symbol and the debaters forgetting the points I was fighting for. The debate started with the statement that the middle class does not have food to eat and they are wasting money on branded items. I contested on this ground, the absurdity of having no money to eat and forgetting this very fact. The others very howling on points that no body dies of hunger. Yeah I know this is unimaginative and I am being a bit selfish in writing this. Only after three days was I to realize that my own family has let me down in this debate. Anyhow, then began another boring cooking session, and the usual adoration of self made things, when they actually are not. The chapattis were bad, the subzi that we had, the aaloo-shimla mirch one was sweet (and they told it is actually sweet) and the dal (this was real tasty) with some rice was the only nice thing. Mudit got some cranberry juice, and I reminded him of the Departed scene. That was it for Thursday.

Friday morning started at 11:00, and I could get only seven hours of free internet. Once again, when we had to leave early, they delayed, and with the assists of the Dutch drivers, dressed in the best of formals, and particularly aware of the value of flying time, to an extent that they were running ahead of the schedule, we missed the train. The wait was painful. It was getting colder, we were shivering, and to add to the bitterness of the environment, there was a German who made mockery of the fact that I do not know Dutch or German. We arrived at the German station at 10:00 and had to wait till 1:30 in the morning. The wait was not pleasant either, when I was carrying the heavy bag, the wind was cold, and the conductors did not know English. We were invited to an orgy, which after politely declining, we readily accepted only to know that it had not yet begun. Damn.

Saturday began with the smartass Indian, from IIT R, and his smartass talking, some glimpses of the Koln cathedral, a foolish conductor, a chilly Frankfurt airport, the bustling Basel station and then the Sri Lankans (read, the friends, and other Indians). We exchanged some euros for some francs (swiss) and set off for Lucerne. The journey gave us some good time, and time for some sandwiches. Switzerland has Indians littered everywhere. Sorry. Asians would be better. Or even better would be saying that more than 90% of the tourists there are from the subcontinent and the Indi-Chinese region. Anyhow, the trip was a nice one, to Mt. Titlis. It was raining at the foot of the hill, and there was the snowstorm on the top. Enjoyable. That’s it. Then came Lucerne. Nothing of a city, but still very lively. Vintage buildings, casions, restaurants, the nice lake and the attractive crowd. And mind you all of this comes with a price tag. The boat trip would have seemed very gay, unless we took some supper in the restaurant on the cruise. But again, everything comes with a price tag. We got down at the next stop, went into a kebap shop and got some kebabs. Nice food, they served. I envy those who went to Lauterbrunnen, for they saw Rivendell. For us, we went to Zurich, on the chic street, outside the bar made some noise, went back to the hostel and slept.

Sunday: Woke up, dropped some bricks, and bingo we were on the station for free. Missed the train we were supposed to catch, and reached Interlaken only half an hour later. On the station I realized that I was being thought of as a Sri Lankan. The old lady, who watched the group eat like gluttons, kept on laughing. At the station, when I waved to her, she came up to me and asked if I was from Sri Lanka. Man, I was blown off. I do not think you find people of such fair skin complexions in Sri Lanks. On revealing my nationality, she did a very brisk Namaste. That was more acceptable, from the nice, cheerful woman. After roaming around for nothing, in the vicinity of the station, we traversed the golden pass route and I personally was extremely bored of sightseeing. Back to Lucerne. Back to Zürich. There in that street, we see three strip clubs, and the people, the Nepalese and the Sri Lankan go crazy. Manoj and I take a more conscientious stand. The timings were from 20:00, and the Sri Lankan had to go back to Deutschland. Back to the station. Got some burgers and chips, for him. There, while waiting for the train, a group of girls, young, I would prefer calling them children, comes to us and the first thing they say to one of us is: I love you. Wow. But children. Shit. Anyhow, the one they were talking to started his sentences. And became the object of mockery. I was eating some bread, and they were constantly looking at me. No, the first thing they asked was our age. Cool. I thought one of us was going to get laid. And then out of the blue comes Fuck you. Fuck you child, don’t you dare swear. They get a boy, hardly 14, and tell him to be the boyfriend who does not like them talking to us. And boom…are you from Sri Lanka?? By then I knew who was the Sri Lankan. Manoj quietly whispered, “They like you I guess”. I was dumbstruck at their behavior. They were sober and they were talking like insane. Namaste soon followed. And then, a hasty farewell. Phew!!! Tough day. We went back and staring at the bar and the strip clubs on the either side of the road, I decided to go for a beer in the bar than seeing the ladies strip. Swiss people are not football crazy and half the customers ordered coke. I felt like a fool. I had ordered a Carlsberg. After the boring 45 minutes, we went back to the station, and took a pee in every possible train we could. Shouting AUSGANG any random moment and laughing, making fun of the Nepalese, till the point that he declared that we were under the influence of alcohol, we started the trip to Koln.

Monday: the Nepalese plays Nothing Else (Metallica)…and a German comes and asks him to send the song over the Bluetooth. He cannot. I ask if she wants some Indian songs. She runs away. He is pissed off, searches the whole train to find her and sends her the shitty Zombie (cranberries) instead. We wake up to find Koln asleep. Nothing on the streets. No toilets. Somehow, the clock strikes 9:00 and we enter the Cathedral, the most remarkable gothic architecture I think I will ever see, climb to the top of it, 100m, climb down and roam around in the street. I feel like a stupid not having bought the eau de cologne. Germany is the cheapest European country, because you get subway sandwich for 2.5 euros and a McD for 1 euro. We then went to Bonn, alighted the train, changed the platforms, and boarded the train back to Koln. There, changed platforms and boarded the train to Amsterdam. The Indians in the train, on their vacation from the US, had a stopover in Dusseldorf, and they suggested us to see the BMW factory. They forgot that donning Giorgio Armani or Prada alone does not grant you the wisdom. We started laughing and did not stop until Utrecht.

It feels nice to be back at home. It felt nice. Everything is relaxed again. The typical Dutch air is so soothing. The week was unusually exhausting. We had skipped Monday, assuming that the project supervisor would take it easy. Instead he summons us into his office and behind the Gucci specs, talks about faith, trust, childishness, immaturity and what not. Yeah, he tells us who we are and reminds us our financial position. That marks the beginning of some epiphany that renders my roomie numb and dumb. He goes to bed at 21:00. Then comes the major threat, the event of the week. I am doing the dishes, when a sleepy land lady comes to me and demands the rent for the month of June. Crazy. I try to explain things and she refuses to understand. I try to talk clever but she very bluntly states the option of throwing us out of the house if we do not pay the rent. I talk to the secretary, who is more concerned about showing off her cleavage than doing her administrative duties and behind the Bvlgari shades, she says everything is done. Amazing precision.

Swiss rightly deserves to be called Chhota Bharat, and thanks to the huge Indian community there, I never felt like I was not in Bihar (on the railway platform for that matter. They were sitting on the floor, with their sheets spread and enjoying the picnic). Tomorrow is another new task. Brussels awaits the Sri Lankan horde. Come whoever may, the Flemish or the Walloons, the battlefield of Waterloo is fresh and ready as ever.