The Son Ran Track For the US Junior Team

On my first night at home (that is to say, namely speaking, the Parental Abode), we had over a guest and his son for dinner. Bigwig at the University of California, was the guest: so biggywiggy that he just called it ‘UC’, not UCLA, or UCBerk, or UCIrvine, or even (sneer) UCSD.

Bigwig medical researcher told us about a student he had interacted with the previous day, a Muslim called Mohammed. Mohammed is a Hazaara Afghani, and if you’ve read The Kite Runner you know what that means. Persecution and rape by ethnic Pashtuns in your own country; all that kind of thing.

So Mohammed’s dad was killed by the Taleban, poor fellow. His mom remarried, but their troubles didn’t end, what with the Soviet invasion and all. So when Mohammed was 14, he crossed the border– solo– into Pakistan, and managed to apply for and receive asylum in the United Kingdom despite not speaking a word of English. He went to that country alone, taught himself English, finished high school, graduated from UCL, and now, 8 years after landing in England, is a medical student at Cambridge ( = fantastic grades in college) and a visiting scholar at Vellore. He plans to visit his parents in Afghanistan next month, for the first time in 8 years.

Now that’s what I call courage, Volume 1.

Feel good about what you’re doing with your life right now?

MBA Peraface

So this one time, I was at a Gurgaon mall, killing ten minutes before going in to waste two hours of my life watching Ice Age 3 (although I did laugh a fair bit), and we hadn’t had dinner, so I was feeling peckish, so I bought myself a doughnut, eventually picking the blueberry filling over the cinnamon ring, and I went to the register to hand over my 35 bucks to pay, and the guy at the register pointed out their summer special offer, which meant that I could get that selfsame doughnut (any ‘nut, in fact) PLUS an iced tea (any drink, if nact) for five rupees less, that being to mean 35 bucks for the doughnut alone, but 30 bucks for the doughnut plus tea, that’s the most stupid limited period business plan ever, just give me the drink for free, ye fool, don’t reduce the price of your product AND give me a freebie when I’m perfectly happy to pay full price for the dough in the first.

I didn’t even want the damned tea. I never want iced tea.

You See,

… I’m too cool to actually announce a break from blogging. I just go ahead and do it.

The car leaves for Madras tomorrow, packed with luggage. I fly down on Wednesday. Updates eventually!

Picpost

Thursday

I fall asleep, half-drunk and half-packed, on half my bed.

Friday

I wake earlier than I’d hoped: 4:40 or so. But by the time I’m packed, bathed, and have chosen music CDs for the trip, it’s 6:30. I’m half an hour behind schedule. Or rather, I’m half an hour ahead of schedule, because who among us doesn’t leave an hour later than planned, always?

I start the engine and let it warm up, ticking over idly, as I clean the wing mirrors and affix my replacement blind-spot mirrors on them. These ones aren’t as nice as the first pair. Still, can’t be helped.

My newly-acquired handheld digital tyre pressure gauge  shows me that I’ve miscalculated my judgments the previous day, and the cold tyre pressures are a little low for highway travel. I fill the petrol tank at the IndianOil near Mall Apartments, but have to make a detour to the Bharat Petroleum at Malka Ganj to refill air, because the gauge at the IndianOil is analogue, and I don’t trust them.

By 7:00, I’m on my way towards Mathura Road. I hit the Delhi-Haryana border at Badarpur at 7:45. 15 minutes later I’ve cleared Faridabad, and by 8:15 the road is finally starting to look like something approximating a National Highway of the stature a Golden Quadrilateral leg (Delhi-Calcutta, going east) deserves.

Mathura comes up in due course, and Agra comes along in a little over 3 hours. No complaints with the road after Mathura: as top-class as an Indian highway can get, except perhaps that cats-eyes along the lane and median markings would be very useful at night.

The usual complaints with Indian highways crop up: camels, cows, goats, and water buffalo taking right-of-way; motorcyclists deciding to overtake an autorickshaw (wtf is an auto doing on a highway in the first place?) just as you come thundering along in the right lane; motorcycles entering the highway through a gap in the median and trusting in you to avoid hitting them (why the fuck do our highways go through villages?? Can’t they go around them?); village women stepping onto the highway from between median vegetation and then looking left, instead of looking before stepping; people crossing the highway at will (at one point a legless beggar crawled his way across); lorries, cars, motorbikes, and bicycles coming at you from the opposite direction– in the fast lane, always in the fast lane; and most of all– lorries driving with one set of wheels over the lane marking, reducing your passing space by a foot, making it very dangerous at 100+ kph speeds. I follow my usual highway style: lean on the horn and make your way through, or keep leaning on the horn until there’s space for you to make your way through. The side-effect is a huge annoyance, though: there are few things more frustrating than looking in your mirror and seeing a truck pull fully back into the left lane, after you’ve squeeezed through with curses that would turn Shaitan’s tongue black. Still, these obstacles help keep you alert and awake: I can’t imagine how boring it must be driving on a developed country’s highway in an automatic transmission with cruise control. (What’s left for the driver to do? Steer?)

The Agra-Kanpur stretch of highway is both truly fantastic and quite empty of traffic, and I make good time, with a stop for fuel 80 km before Kanpur, a 10-minute pause for a phone call about a refrigerator, and a lunch break 10 km later. I munch salami slices inside folded bread slices, chug a Tuborg (just one small beer); take a piss on a tree in front of two village boys, take a couple of photos, and am back on the road in twenty minutes. Kanpur has a beauty of an elevated bypass that takes half an hour to traverse, so no loss of speed there. The Allahabad Air Force base comes up 10 hours after I begin driving, but it takes me another hour to make my way through that ultracongested mess they call A’bad city and up to the leprosy mission hospital on the banks of the Yamuna where I’ve been camped out since.

A fun day for me. Instructive too, in that I learn my reaction to extended solo driving (much less stressful/tiring than I’d anticipated), and the car’s reaction to the same (no problems whatsoever, and it goes faster than the Qualis at home).

Driving solo I couldn’t take too many pictures, but I did manage a few when the highway was particularly empty. Have a dekko. All pics are thumbnails.

Just after Faridabad

Nice trees, but note the tractor coming the wrong way

Another jackass tractor. That bug died on my windshield about a minute into the journey. V annoying

The Taj Mahal

En route Kentucky

Morons

That's more like it

Close to top speed

Lunch break

Fucking useless GPS

Back to Dilli tomorrow.

Melting

Oh Jesus, it’s hot. It’s bloody fucking hot. DIE, you motherfucking assholes who complain on Facebook of 23-degree “heat waves” in Europe. Die, and have your corpse sent to me so I can fuck it sideways. I know it gets hot in summer, and in North Indian latitudes June (not August) is the peak summer month, but manohman, boyoboy, this is getting to be a little ‘over‘, as we say in Tamilnad.

Thank GAWD ALMIGHTY for the airconditioner in the car. Even that piece of shit tends to cut out every now and then, and it can’t handle the direct June sun, but it’s certainly better than nothing.

So– where have I been these few days? Who fucking cares? I’ve been up to my usual shit. Drinking copious amounts of whisky daily. Jacking off to mental images of celebrities, without the need for streaming porn. (But still, someone hurry up and leak the Leighton Meester sex tape already.) I haven’t been hitting on anyone. I’ve been repelling the one person hitting on me. Sex is so not on my mind in this weather. Okay, that’s a lie. The weather has diddly-squat to do with it. But still, it’s bloody fucking hot. Have I said that already?

Inbetween all this solo debauchery, I made a major decision as to what to do next; where to go from here. On the other hand, I thought I had made this decision 3 weeks ago, and I reneged at the first opportunity, bloody mercenary that I am, so I don’t want to talk about it just yet.

Impulse decision to drive to Allahabad this weekend. (Friday included.) Why would anyone drive to a shithole called Allahabad? Because there are women there who beg for my company, of course. And also because I’m getting mighty bored of driving from North to South Delhi and back again. There’s only so much on-road swearing at these fucking Delhiites you can do before you realise they have the brains of a zombie in an exam on neuroskeletal muscular control.

I’m severely underprepared for my planned trip. I don’t know how many kilometres away Allahabad is. I do know it ought to take me not more than 10 hours– which is quite a lot to drive by yourself in one day. I know that the route is Delhi-Agra (home of man’s greatest erection for a woman, as the tee-shirt goes)-Mathura-Kanpur-A’bad. 4-lane “National Highway” (HA!) all the way. I haven’t filled the tank with gasolina, but I’ve checked the tyre pressures. I’ve bought provisions for the journey: 30 bucks’ worth of chicken salami and a half-loaf of bread, plus a half-litre of Pepsi, plus a pint of beer to have with lunch. (I know what you’re thinking, but fuck you, I’m a cool guy, and ergo I have a Cool Bag, replete with insulation and ice packs to keep all this shit safe from THE HEAT.) Plus a bottle of Smirnoff for the girls in Allahabad. Oh fuck, I was supposed to buy them a packet of Marlboro reds as well. These things slip your mind when you NO LONGER SMOKE. (Plus, five hundred rupees for the Smirnoff and 90 bucks for the smokes? Do you know how much cheap whisky I could get for that much dough? Fecking hell. The things I do for platonic relationships with womenfolk.)

So, y’know, it’s already Friday morning, I’m supposed to start driving in 5 hours and 25 minutes, and instead of packing or sleeping, I’m writing this shit with my eyes half-closed. What a bloody tiring day I’ve had. I slept most of the day, except for when I was watching The Bank Job over lunch. (God, I want to fuck a Brit.) Then there was a 3-hour round-trip drive to the airport to see me mam, passing through Dilli on her way back to the glorious South. Good god. Insanely tiring, this sleeping all day. I tell thee.

The camera battery is charging as we speak, so let’s hope I get some remotely interesting pictures of the hinterland; the HIV-infested truckers; the rural populace; the “real India”. My hairy left tentacle.

To Put It Mildly

Many of my friends are football (soccer) fans. They take their allegiances very seriously.

A few support one of the two Milan giants (usually Inter, not AC), and most have a soft spot for either Real Madrid or Barcelona, but the vast majority are die-hard fans of English Premier League clubs. Not all the clubs, mind you– Man U claims the most, followed by Chelsea and Arsenal, with a Liverpool supporter here and there. Perhaps there’s some respect for Villa and Newcastle. But that’s it. That’s the domain from which clubs to allegiate with are chosen.

The Indian “football clubs”– Mahindra United, Dempo, Mohun Bagun, East Bengal (viz. Pakistan/Bangladesh, but nobody gets that) are mere novelties, trifles to read about in the newspaper.*

As for myself, I find the proclaimed loyalties to clubs thousands of miles away quite hilarious. These guys refer to their club as “we/us”. As in, “Haha– we beat you yesterday.” “Yeah, but we’re getting Lars Ulrich on a transfer next month– then we’ll beat you hollow.”

My loyalties are very fickle, personally. I go more for the person than the team– I loved the Phoenix Suns, but only for Jason Kidd. I thought Thierry Henry had a cool name, so I was an Arsenal “supporter” in college, but not now that he’s left. I think the LA Lakers will crash and burn spectacularly once Kobe retires, and I’ll stop supporting them then.

I lived in the UK briefly as a kid, and going to school there, I couldn’t but have a favourite football team. (I even had a full-size ball, studs, and shinguards. Sigh.) My team was Crystal Palace. Heard of them? I think they were relegated a decade or two ago, then made a brief return to the First Division, and then went down once more. I supported Crystal Palace because everyone else in my school supported Crystal Palace.

When we shifted locations (once a year, usually), and I moved to a new school, the kids crowded around and asked me which club I supported. (None of that racism crap back then– I talked like them, so it was fine.) “Crystal Palace,” said I, and the rumour ran around the playground. “Where’s Jack? Call Jack G__.”

They found me the ONE boy in that school who also supported Crystal Palace. He was thrilled to meet a fellow fan, but little did he know I would shortly convert myself to better fit in with the rest, and become one more Manchester United supporter. It was the year Ryan Giggs first burst onto the scene, and he was all the rage, with his scraggly black curls. Giggs is now a Man U doyen/stalwart/old man, and every time I see him play I feel a bit old.

The point of all this, of course, has been to tell you that the one team I DO support, unequivocally, completely, madly– the group that taught me the meaning of a fan’s passion, has released their tenth studio album!

… and it doesn’t suck, like I was afraid it would!

I’m so happy!

_________________________________

* The present coach of the Indian national football team, some poor Briton, went on record a couple of days ago railing against the state of sports administration in this country. It’s impossible to get anything done here, said he, and you can bring in a Guus Hiddink or a Jose Mourinho and the Indian side will still languish in oblivion until they’re given some facilities. He was speaking at the occasion of the departure of the national squad to go and train in Dubai, because of the lack of ONE single world-class football stadium to train in in the whole of India. How do you expect to play World Cup qualifiers against Korea and Japan, said he. Sigh. It’s so pathetic.

She So Fat, I Had To Roll Over Twice To Get Off Her

The old one-two. The stop-and-start. The drop-and-run. The jab-and-twist. The riddle-me-ree.

No, not bedroom moves: I’m talking about that thing you can do with your car to scare the bejeezus out of a lesser driver behind you. It flies in the face of all road safety ethics, but if done carefully by a skilled driver on the right road, it can be just the what the doctor ordered to safety-release your road rage.

The indications for this petrolhead tonic are simple: a driver tailgating you; crowding your rear, honking his heart out and trying to get by you when there’s nothing you can do to give him room. Muahahaha. Do you really think you’re faster than me, bitch? Do you think I wouldn’t be going any faster if I could? Do I look like your momma, puttering along at 40 kph in the right lane with one hand in her cunt?

It takes more time to describe the move than to execute it. Simple: a deliberate half-second press on your brakes, followed by quick acceleration away as the car behind suddenly fills up the whole of your rearview mirror. (If you’re not careful he’ll drive straight into you, so time it well.)

Ah, the beautiful sound of squealing tyres as the hapless moron behind you is caught completely off-guard by your braking and slams his foot on his brake pedal with his heart in his mouth. Make sure he’s looking in your direction, then lift your middle finger to the centre of the car (so he can see it) and mouth the words to his reflection. Now, doesn’t that feel good?

…

Lady driving the black Swift Dzire, registration DL-2C-AK-3316, I hope you got the shock of your life on the Ridge Road this afternoon. You deserved it. Even the taxi-wallah in the lane next to me was driving better than you, and that’s really saying something in Delhi.

Moral of the story: Don’t fuck with the only TN-reg golden Zen in the Capital.

LinkUPS

One reason I sold my motorbike:

http://www.team-bhp.com/forum/street-experiences/60449-may-17th-crash-my-second-life.html

~

One reason to sigh sadly:

http://www.autosport.com/news/report.php/id/76292

I’z In Yer City Takin Yer Jawbs

The parking situation here being what it is, an encroachment of even 6 inches onto another car’s (mine) “reserved” area meant that I couldn’t fully parallel-wedge the car in when I got home last night. Its butt is in, properly, but the nose was sticking out.

I went down this morning to pick up my newspaper (inflation levels in India are now negative; I remember when they were so high they almost brought down a government) and to check for scratches on the car’s aquiline nose.

Stbx* LandLady came through her doorway and I silently groaned. She’d been under with a slipped disc for a few weeks, poor thing, but those weeks were such bliss for me– the freedom to walk up and down the stairs without being accosted and being forced into circular conversations that never led anywhere much.

And, Perakath, son?

Namaste, auntyji.

(Gesturing at the car) Are you going? To college?

Right now? No ma’am.

Oh… what do you do, you? Do you work or study?

I was studying a student, ma’am. My course just ended.

Oh yes, what were you studying– LLB?

Yes’m.

So now what will you do– where will you practise? Here or at home?

That’s the thing– I’m not certain yet. I’m still trying to figure out a way to stay in Delhi.

Really? Why? Go back to your place, why don’t you?***

… Er…

Accha, so what’s the difference between Chennai and Hyderabad?

(!!!) Er… one is in Andhra Pradesh, the other’s in Tamil Nadu?

Hmm… oye! [Passing] mangowallah! Come here!

_______________________________

* Soon-to-be ex

** She meant my South Indian parental abode, wherever that might be

*** This was the point of the post. I can’t bring out the way she said it. It was perfectly done– could well have been innocent, but could just as well have been telling me, “Why do you want to stay in this city, bloody South Indian?”

All Done I!

Do you know how many YEARS I’d been waiting for that moment? I’d imagined it my head so many times. The short walk from the Law Fac building to the car, holding my pencil bag, question paper, hall ticket, and ruler in one hand and my empty water-bottle in the other… for the last time!

North Campus will never be the same again.

~

To celebrate, I treated myself to an Italian BMT Subway sandwich, instead of my usual daily special Suboftheday.

Psst. Without the dressings, which I always avoid for their fat content, the BMT is really not worth it.

~

I’m so happy, yo!

As for the library…