Kudikara kudumbam

People, Bill post. Bill's promised to keep this blog thing alive while I am off catching up on some reading so I shall be nice and say nothing of the tickets-that-has-not-been-booked. (For now, that is). Not that he needs much help - with both sets of parents in and out over the past month, there is no dearth of blog material. For a while, it seemed like we were back in 2005 and its like bed-a-bong time all over again but thankfully things are under control now. Anyway, expect to see a few more parenty type posts in the next few days (though knowing Bill, this will be the last you will hear from him)

Living room. Veena on the phone. Amma[1] in the kitchen (where I am banned). Don takes me to one side.

"That part where I bit my tongue the other day. It is still hurting"

"We will go get some mouth gel. I am surprised it's still so bad after 3 days"

"I know what will help"

"What?"

"Just one shot. Whisky always helps"

"Heh. Okay, should I get you some ice?"

"No, no, I will get"

"Come to the living room, I will get all ice and whisky and we can have a manly father-in-law -- son-in-law whisky"

"No!"

"Oh. Why not?"

"I will go see what amma is doing in the kitchen"

"Because she will not shout at you as much as your daughter?"

"No no, because amma also likes whisky"

"What? Since when?"

"I gave her in the morning, she likes single malt"

"Wait, you were drinking away when we left?"

"What, me? No, it was amma"

"I mean, both of you"

"Well, we get bored sitting at home while you both are away"

"But you are not at home. You have been visiting places"

"Not all the time"

"I guess. So when you get bored, you sit and drink whisky?"

"Not really. If you can get us some toddy, that would work too"

"And this is like a family tradition?" (Don family! What did I expect?)

"Not in my family. In amma's family, yes. Any new person gets welcomed into the family by waking him up early in the morning and making him down a cask of fresh toddy. I remember they did that to me back in the day"

"So I am not part of family?"

"Who said?"

"But no one gave me alcohol when I visited amma's village"

"Yes, yes, I remember. That's because Veena said you can't handle such stuff"

"She said what?"

"She said you are this wine-drinking pretentious city boy who cannot handle the real stuff. Not like us, you know"

"I shall have you know that it is just not true. Next time I come there, you have to get me toddy"

Veena off the phone by now.

"Darling, the toddy guy who goes up the tree, he comes at 5"

"So?"

"So they make you wake up at 6, have toddy and put you to work in the farm. Like ploughing and stuff. You will die"

"6! Who wakes up at 6?"

"Non-Bongs. Real people"

"Yeah right. All this cos you don't want to feed me alcohol"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because you want to drink it all up"

"Nonsense"

"True only. How did I get married into such an alcoholic family[2], I don't understand"

[1] I know. We were all bewildered by this amma-appa comedy that Bill does, but my parents have finally gotten used to it. These vague uncultured Northies. They don't have concept of athai-mama. We will have to put up with this only.

[2] (For non-Tams) Kudikara kudumbam

Another list

People, we have another list - the Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize shortlist. Quite a strange list and I am not sure how one judges such different things. Anyway, some common contenders on this one and the Booker - White Tiger and A Case of Exploding Mangoes. We could do a Mela for this prize too but let's not overdo it. And anyway, I have a better idea. All of you go buy your second copy of the one book of poetry on that list and let us know what you think. I promise to get your copy specially autographed by the authoress herself. Promise.

Booker time

I know, I know but when were we on time? Plus I am going through one of my non-fiction phases and somewhere halfway through Keay's latest. But the Booker doesn't wait of course and the longlist has always been a great way to find new writers, so well, we shall do the Mela as usual. The only one I have read so far on the list is the Rushdie which was all about "Look, how cool I am!" and because it was Rushdie, it just about worked but nothing to write home about.

The longlist:

Aravind Adiga The White Tiger - n!'s review
Gaynor Arnold Girl in a Blue Dress
Sebastian Barry The Secret Scripture
John Berger From A to X
Michelle de Kretser The Lost Dog
Amitav Ghosh Sea of Poppies - Space Bar
Linda Grant The Clothes on Their Backs - Falstaff, Veena, Fëanor
Mohammed Hanif A Case of Exploding Mangoes
Philip Hensher The Northern Clemency
Joseph O'Neill Netherland - Falstaff's note
Salman Rushdie The Enchantress of Florence
Tom Rob Smith Child 44
Steve Toltz A Fraction of the Whole - Falstaff

As always, drop me a line / link if you plan to read and review any of these before they announce the prize in Oct.

Previous Booker Melas: 2005, 2006, 2007

Two questions

1. Where can I buy marriage insurance?

2. Has anyone seen the Dark Knight? Any good shots of Gotham?

Postcard from Plzeň

Because nobody wanted it. And I am too lazy to re-write it to make anyone want it. Plus I promised you all that I would furnish details of moi's many alcohol adventures. And because someone needs to convince Cat that the place exists.

The Czech Republic holds the interesting distinction of being the country with the highest per capita consumption of beer in the world. Wikipedia informs me that at 157 litres / year, the Czechs are way ahead of the Irish who come in second with 131 litres. Most of what the Czechs drink is a pale lager or rather the mother of all pale lagers, the Pilsner Urquell. The city of Pilsen (Czech: Plzeň) in western Bohemia is home to the brewery which invented the pale lager. Car aficionados no doubt recognize Pilsen as being the home of the much-seen cars on desi highways in recent years, the Skoda. As LP informed me, car and beer don’t usually mix, but don’t mention that when you are in Pilsen.

We took the bus to Pilsen from Prague, arguably the most beautiful city in Bohemia if not in all of Europe. For the casual visitor, Prague is all about the Castle’s amazing gargoyles, lovely church steeples and gold-tipped Hussite spires. For the culturally inclined, there is no dearth of intellectual tradition - this is after all the city of Kafka and Kundera, of Hrabal and of a young Forman, and of the playwright-President Vaclav Havel. Pilsen, on the other hand, seemed gritty, more an industrial town than a cultural centre, and the people not as friendly; in a sense closer to their German neighbours than their fellow countrymen in the east. It took all the German we knew and a bit of luck in the form of a Pilsner Urquell truck that we ran after to find our way to the brewery.

There were three Swedes (I am actually not making this up) in addition to the two of us in the English tour that was just starting. As we were waiting for the last two people in our tour to arrive Jan, our tour guide told us the history of how at the end of WW2, the American soldiers had already liberated Pilsen a couple of days before the Red Army reached Prague. However, they waited in Pilsen instead of continuing on to Prague in deference to their Soviet Allies who were making their way to Prague from the east. This is why Pilsen celebrates Liberation Day two days before the rest of the country. Jan explained that since then, the Americans had never turned up on time for anything just as the last two people on our tour, the American couple, joined us.

The tour began with a video of the history of the brewery – in the 1800s, every building in the city centre had a brewing license. However, the citizens were not happy with top-fermented beers because of their low quality and short storage life and decided to incorporate a brewery to produce bottom-fermenting beer. The Bavarian brewers were considered the masters in bottom fermentation and therefore they hired Josef Groll, a brewer from Bavaria. In 1842, Groll produced the first batch of Urquell beer, but distinct from the Bavarian ones because of the use of soft Bohemian water, pale malt local to the region, and bitter hops from Saaz. From such humble beginnings, Pilsner Urquell has gone on to become the signature lager, the flagship brand today for the SABMiller brewery group with many copycat products trying to cash in to the Pilsner name[1].

We visited the new, state-of-the-art bottling plant (latest German technology we were told) where thousands of bottles and cans were making their way through conveyor belts. The capacity was 60,000 bottles an hour and they work around the clock. In addition to cans and bottles, kegs are filled with unpasteurised beer to supply to the local pubs. We were then taken to the brewing plants – the old brewery has been converted into an exhibition hall and a new plant built next to it. Jan walked us through the process of making the lager – malt, water, hops and yeast are all that goes into it. Both barley for the pale malt and hops is local to the region and there were samples for us to taste. The hops were bitter, way bitter than any bitter-gourd I’ve been made to have but the after taste makes it worth the effort.

We then walked to the new brewing plant to see the mashing process - the malted grain is mixed with water and heated to break down the starch in the grains to sugars. The malt extract, called wort is boiled, and hops added at this stage to give the beer its bitterness and aroma. Once the wort is whirl pooled and cooled, the yeast is added and the fermentation process begins. For the lager, bottom fermenting yeasts are used, and these eat less sugar, produce a cleaner taste and have a longer storage life. When the sugars have been completely digested, the beer is cooled to freezing, and conditioned for 5 or 6 weeks. This beer is then filtered to remove any yeast and hops before it is sent to the packaging plant for pasteurisation and bottling.

At this point, Bill and I reckoned that we were nearly at the end of the tour and as we had a train to catch (to the next beer town actually), we told Jan that we would be leaving and promised him that we would have Pilsner Urquell in the next pub we are at. Jan asked us to wait a few minutes more. So we walked down with him to the old and dank fermentation cellars. Temperature controlled rooms and tanks are used for this purpose nowadays but these hand-built cellars are still used to make a few barrels of beer the old way just for the tour groups and for the brewery museum. This beer comes straight off the barrel, and is unfiltered and unpasteurised and more importantly, is not available anywhere else in the world. In Jan’s words, “this is the real thing”. We immediately took the largest glass possible, got it filled, raised the glasses with a “Skol” to the Swedes, and promptly drank it all up. We missed the train to Cesky Budejovice that day and had to wait a couple of hours for the next train but I wasn’t complaining. The tiny bits of hops along with the heavenly pale lager were definitely worth missing a couple of trains.

[1] I know. It is intentional alright? I have been told that this can count as relationship building. If I manage to sell work, I reckon I can expense my Czech trip. So yeah, no snarkiness on this one. Be nice.

Rain eh? Time for some hot tea, scrumptious buns and poetry, I say

So accidentally I click on BBC Sport yesterday afternoon and see this Live Video link. (No, we do not have a TV) Then I wonder whether these video thingies are any good and click on it quite randomly. The next four hours gone. Just like that. Of all the matches I could have serendipitiously watched, I ended up watching this one. Cool, no?

Last time I watched a tennis match, the top seeds were all at least five years older than me. So I have no idea who these two players were. But it was alright as well, come on, how can you not tell a Swiss from a Spaniard? What, who did I root for? Well, I always root for the underdog. Always. So I know nothing about these two and when I started watching, Fed was two sets down so obviously I root for him. No, no point to all this. Oh wait, there is one. BM, Falstaff - Can you guys like sign up Roger and Rafa for audiopoetry? Thanks to Aunty Beeb, they were made to recite Kipling's If when rain suspended play. No, I am actually not kidding. I wonder whose idea it was. These Brits are funny, no?

Bill tells me that all knowing you tube has vid. of course.

At the Taste

So went to this thing called Taste of London last weekend. Low expectations as she who knows everything about food in this city wasn't very encouraging. But it turned out to be alright. Crowded and all but had some pretty good food. Ya, you might have read a slightly different version over your morning coffee so yes, there is a reason why this reads like it does.

Expectedly, London’s diversity in the food scene is unmatched by most other cities in the world - every region that one could think of is represented here. There is also no question that the city has some of the finest restaurants in the world especially if one were to go by the stars that Michelin gives out every year. However, if the city were to be judged by the food that is available to the masses, most Londoners would agree that the city does not score high. There are some very good markets and some amazing street food but for the most part, the “good” food is heavily overpriced that most of us commoners have to be happy with instant kebabs and pasta from the neighbourhood grocery store. So an occasion like the Taste of London, an annual event that Time magazine describes as one of the world’s best food festivals, that brings together more than 40 of the top restaurants in London and offers up fare at a fraction of the cost sounds too good to miss.

Evidently most people in London thought so too, I realised as we joined the crowd right outside the entrance. The Taste is held for four days in June in the leafy environs of Regents Park, a stone’s throw away from home, another reason why I was ready to pay the hefty entrance fee. The evening event was just beginning as we entered, and the Cuban band performing that night was tuning their instruments.

A special draw this year was Taste of China showcasing the regional variety of the country, and we walked in there first to see what was cooking. At the Amoy tent, a musical cooking session was in progress. The travelling cook, after playing the flute for a few minutes taught us how to make real Chinese food. He exclaimed “Real, as in Chinese food where you do NOT call the takeout joint and ask for a number. This is not number 76. This is a real dish!” Then he proceeded to teach a bunch of Britishers (and two Indians) how to cut cucumber. He pulled out a rolling pin and bashed the cucumber a few times and viola, you have bashed cucumbers which actually absorbs sauces. A few bits of the cucumber had splattered onto the front row and our cook profusely apologized blaming it on the Chinese beer he was drinking. Which prompted us to move on to the next tent which was serving cold Harbin beer which we happily sipped while watching an ice-carver carving a dragon.

The best food in the Taste of China section was served up by a Beijing restaurant called South Beauty. The London restaurants such as Snazz Sichuan and China Tang had good food but came nowhere close to South Beauty’s heavenly steamed chicken dipped in fresh chilli sauce and Kung-pao shrimp balls. We left the China section and I was flipping through the booklet to see where we should go next when I realised that I had lost Bill. I looked around but got sidetracked by a cooking event in the Nintendo stand. Nintendo has a Cooking Guide (a satnav for the kitchen!) which tells you how to make fast and tasty food!

Leaving the tent, I ran into Bill; he was busy finishing up tasting glasses of Tanqueray. An avid gin-and-tonic drinker myself, I joined him and we spent the next few minutes between the Tanqueray and the Grand Marnier booths. Happy with our aperitif, we then ventured into Café Spice Namaste, London’s famous Parsi joint for dahi batata poori. I was expecting the snooty Bombay-bred man to turn up his nose but to my surprise, he called it good chaat. We followed it with smoked monkfish from Salt Yard, the Spanish restaurant with the crazy wait lines. The monkfish was good but the best fish I tasted that day came from Launceston Place where the salmon was smoked right in the stall before it was served.

What is a food festival without French food? So we hit that next – seared scallop at Club Gascon and lobster soup at Le Gavroche. Decent stuff but well, French food is always lost on me. We headed to the Wine & Spirit booth where a Spanish wine tasting was starting and spent the next half hour sniffing and swirling and claiming to recognize various fruits. Followed by a trip to Nahm, arguably London’s finest Thai restaurant where we had the best chicken of the day – green curry chicken with thai basil and aubergines.

All in all, the food was great and my stomach was going to burst any moment. I was ready to call it a night after a tiny portion of the amazing Flour Power brownies butBill wasn't done yet. To round off the night, the Bong wanted the Bengali style minced mutton cutlets at the Cinnamon Club. He loved it and so will you. Just make sure you head over to the Taste of London next year.

Time to get Bamse

If you haven't heard already, there is this silly comedy happening in Kerala over seventh standard textbooks. So the deal is the SCERT introduced new textbooks which has a lesson on boy named Jeevan who has doesn't seem to have religion / caste. When the Principal asks his parents what if Jeevan wants a religion, his parents tell the Principal that if he really wants one, he is free to choose one when he grows up. Evidently this is a Communist ploy to corrupt young minds and turn them away from religion and induct kids into atheism. All religious groups in Kerala - Nairs, Bishops and the Mullahs and the Opposition party (which was once led by chap called Nehru) are up in arms and in true Mallu fashion, burning everything in sight.

As you have all guessed by now, ya, I have a solution. Its all very simple. Just bring in Bamse. If you are putting his stuff in textbooks, get him to say it himself. No one will complain. Problem solved.

In which Chotu Motu go see Stalin's boots in Budapest

People, another Bill post. Well, I had to rewrite parts but its mostly Bill.

Budapest. Day Two. Bill is diligently reading city guide.

"Ha, this guidebook is funny"

"I will let the LP people know"

"I mean seriously. They have these random things that they claim we have to see. Something about the relics of communism in a field somewhere"

"What is funny about that?"

"Apparently they took all big big "monuments" from their Communist days and stuck them all somewhere outside town and now people go there and pay to see these things"

"What, where? Let's go!"

"It's too far. And doesn't sound like there's much to see"

"Okay, lets not go then"

"Why not? There is a special tourist bus that will take us there"

"I thought you said there's nothing much to see"

"Yeah. Well. Not like we have hajjar other things to do. Besides don't you want to see this?"

"I do. But just wanted to make sure you do too. Because I know how you will spin this later"

"I am not evil like you"

"Yeah right. Where is this bus?"

The one tourist bus had already left from Deak Ter. But as you all know it takes a lot more than a silly tourist bus to make our intrepid travellers give up on Communist relics.

"We can take public transport. Lets go ask the bus station"

"How good is your Magyar?"

***

"So the place is an hour away, and requires three changes of bus to get there. Why are we going there again?"

"People's transport to see the peoples' relics. It's so appropriate."

"Yeah, yeah, you card-carrier. I'm sure this is some kind of pilgrimage to you."

"Yeah, Sabarimala only this is for me. And who you calling card-carrier?"

"You only. You and your family card-carrier"

"I come from a family of large land owners. Trust me, if anyone's family is Communist here, its surely not mine"

"Yeah yeah"

"Well, I am not the one here who is related to Olof Palme"

"Olof Palme is no Communist"

"I know. But how are you related to Olof Palme?"

"I am not related to Olof Palme"

"If you say so. Anyway, my grandfather did not head the Communist part of Britain"

"Mine neither. Rajani Palme is from some long lost branch of family that no one knows about"

"Nonsense. Your aunt in Stockholm told me all about your family's past. Come on Billster, embrace your roots"

"Go away"

"I will. Here's the bus"

***

Which is how we ended up trudging up the hill to Memento park. (Chotu Motu being Chotu Motu promptly got down one stop before the Park and had to walk) Sort of like going to Tirupati, except there are no crowds. Only some picnickers, enthusiastic American tourists, and of course card-carrying people from Bamse's own land.

The top of the hill is an enclosed park, with cars whizzing by outside. Next to the motorway are the imposing boots of Stalin, announcing the beginning of the park. These tower over the onlookers, giving a sense of how big the entire statue would have been, before the students took an axe to it in 1956.



Next to a statue of Lenin looking very solemn and wise is the ticket seller. There's also a souvenir shop, selling T-shirts advertising the "3 terrors" (Mao, Stalin and Lenin). All very capitalist, making money off communist relics by converting it to a show.



As we enter, there's a Trabant standing alone in a field. Looks remarkably well-preserved, for a people's car that was synonymous with cheap and unreliable construction.



Then there are statues of workers announcing victory, and some farmers standing tall with pride. There's a whole section of forgotten men, Russian and Hungarian party workers and leaders. And of course, some who are not forgotten, at least in some parts of the world.










(Aside. Feanor: Doesn't this last but one picture remind you of the one you shot near Temple? Connected, you reckon?)

"Hey look, there's the bearded men! Both Marx and Engels, together. Quick, take a photo"

"For when you are standing for elections? That picture is worth a thousand votes"

"Exactly. Don't you want one too, when you are standing in Bengal elections?"

"I don't plan to stand for elections in Bengal. Or anywhere"

"But we need picture of you with this big, strong chap here"

"Why?"

"How will I win election then? If you are not there to show support"

"Bill showing support actually doesn't work that well. Ask Hillary"

"It works in Malluland. Especially when Bill is from Bengal"

"Yeah yeah, we know that's why you married me"

"Of course"

***

No, not the End yet. It does not end until a couple of shots are downed. All pictures taken, red stars on the garden duly noted, we took the buses back to the city. We stepped out of the last bus back on Deak.

"Dude, look at that: Festival of the Hungarian Spirit"

"Hmm, sounds like something that would have been home in the Memento Park. Workers of Hungary, unite"

"Maybe they will have some good folk dance and music. Let's go!"

Turned out they meant Hungarian spirit in the literal sense, being Palinka, the local schnapps. Our workers from Kerala and Bengal had appropriately heady shots. Viva Liberty!

I am glad that the Times agrees.

Come on people, you surely remember how much I was enamored by Berlin around this time last year? Times took another year but they have come to the same conclusion. My favorite city in Europe also happens to be the most cultured city in Europe. Teach you all to listen to me.

True colours

"This Ashis Nandy chap..."

"Yeah?"

Silence.

"What about Ashis Nandy?"

"He could be so idiotic sometimes"

"I thought you liked him. Like like types"

"I do. But sometimes, he is so silly"

"What did he do now?"

"Read this"

Was the article inflammatory as the complaint suggests?

It seems inflammatory because it challenges the self-serving illusions of the middle class against which it is directed. But since when have attacks on the middle class become a means of fomenting enmity among communities? My attack may seem strident, but it is tame compared to, say, Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay's critique of the Bengali middle class, a prescribed text in Bengal for at least seven decades. A middle class that can't stand radical criticism is not really a middle class; it only has middle-class income. I admit I am a traitor to my class, but I am in good company.

(From here)

"What are you chuckling about?"

"Well I have always found Mr Nandy entertaining"

"Not the point"

"What's your problem dude?"

"You mean you don't see it?"

"See what?"

"One. Assume you are in trouble with like the whole of Gujarat. And you are being interviewed by this magazine and you are explaining away / justifying your actions. What do you do?"

"I don't know"

"Well, Tell me what you don't do"

"How do I know?"

"I will tell you what you don't do. You do NOT draw a parallel to Bengal. That is guaranteed to make the situation worse"

"Yeah but who said he is trying to get out of this? From what I know of Nandy, he lives for such controversies. Why would he ever want to get out of this? You must admit that it is a lot of fun"

"Yeah but that's not the point"

"You just told me that it is"

"No, I did not"

"Then what is the point?"

"He drew a parallel to Bongs. Did you read that?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Do you know how that makes me feel?"

"You? Dude, if something makes you feel, that must be something. But I have no idea why"

"You are being silly now. He drew a parallel to Bongs. Implying that Gujjus are comparable to Bongs. Can you imagine a worse insult to us Bongs?"

"You bloody racist"

"This has got nothing to do with being racist"

"Okay, regionalist. Bongist. Whatever. Thank Bamse you never lived in Bongland. You would have been some Thackeray type character"

"Don't be silly. No way. We need these people to do the work"

"Oh yes. These inferior people!"

"Obviously. Now you begin to see my point"

"I do indeed. And all I can say is its all okay as I am sure the Gujjus feel the exact same way"

"Go away"

Real Swedish men (and one Egyptian-American) wear Björn Borg underwear

Hullo! I know, I know, there's like some 1008 posts that I need to do. But the past few days have been busy with the Kid visiting and some other stuff going on. Net net there's so much material that I cannot decide which one I should post first. But wait. Bamse has threatened to call from Stockholm so I need to make this a Rooster post. Especially with this Nadal chap making a habit of following Borg man, someone should tell him (Nadal) what is in his future. So here is a post in which moi's a silent spectator.

Malmo. Its the day of the Rooster's party. The Rooster's conned his very responsible sisters to take care of all the party work and he has got nothing to do. All that's been asked of him is to turn up. Rooster and M Antonius in deep discussion in balcony on foothills of Turning Torso early afternoon.

R: I need to pick up some clothes

M.A: What's wrong with what you are wearing now?

R: I need to change for the party

M.A: You got no clothes to change into?

R: I do. But I need to buy new underwear.

M.A: What happened to your laundry machine? Or don't they exist in Sweden?

R: This is a special occasion. I need to get special occasion underwear.

M.A: What do you Swedes do in your birthday parties? Is there something I should know that no one has told me yet?

R: No, you don't need to know. There will be a couple of chicks from my dorm.

M.A: Why do you still live in a dorm? Who lives here?

R: I stay in the dorm some days. The chicks are all there.

M.A: That sounds like a good reason. Can we go there on my grand tour of Sweden next week?

R: No.

M.A: Why?

R: Because we have to take a train to get there. Do you know what that is?

M.A: No, what is it? Wait, I know. I think I have seen it in a museum.

R: It is a vehicle with lots of coaches and an engine. It is huge.

M.A: Like a SUV? And its all just for one person?

R: No, lots of people travel in it. Hundreds. Its called public transportation.

M.A: Ah. Silly Swedes. No, can't do.

R: That's why we can't go to the dorm. And now, I am going to Björn Borg. Do you want to come?

M.A: Who is Björn Borg?

Rooster nearly falls off the balcony.

R: Did you ask who is Björn Borg?

M.A: Yes. Who is he?

R: Everytime I try to forget that you are American, you come up with something like this.

M.A: Well, who is he and why are you going to see him?

R: He sells underwear.

M.A: Oh, he is a Swedish underwear designer. Why should I know this Swedish underwear designer? So he is like a big brand in these parts?

R: You can say that.

M.A: I am in. Let us go see Björn Borg.

Twenty minutes later. Björn Borg store in Malmo. (People: Did you really think I was making all this up? Go click the link. Go on)

M.A: What is going on here? Where do these people come from?

R: Sweden

M.A: I know that, thank you. You don't see anything strange with the salesmen?

R: No

M.A: You mean you don't think that they have jumped out of a gay music video?

R: No

M.A: Dude!

R: What? Here, I am done. I am getting these.

M.A: What's up with powder pink and blue? What happened to blacks and whites?

R: They are all here

M.A: Yeah, there are two solid blacks among thousands of pink underwear. Where are we dude?

R: Bamseland. Here, men are comfortable in their sexuality.

M.A: Yuck. Yuck.

R: What now?

M.A: This is like lycra. This is porno underwear, that's what it is. You wear porno underwear.

R: The cotton ones are here. If you look at only porno underwear there is nothing I can do.

M.A: I don't believe this. We are in a store that sells pink underwear with floral patterns on them.

R: You need to get outside your country once in a while and see what real men wear.

M.A: Real men? Yeah right.

R: I am done. Let's go.

M.A: Wait

R: I knew it

M.A: It isn't what you think it is.

R: I know it is. Which ones are you getting?

M.A: I just want to show people back home what goes for men's underwear in Sweden.

R: I am sure that's why you are buying powder pink.

M.A: Why can't I be comfortable in my sexuality?

R: We aren't comfortable in our sexuality because we wear Björn Borg. Its the other way around.

M.A: Do you know how these sizes work? Relative to US brands?

R: Why would I?

M.A. accosts salesgirl (SG).

M.A: Hello! Would you happen to know what size I should get?

SG: Sir, you can try them on. The fitting rooms are this way.

M.A: Oh. Thanks.

SG runs away.

M.A: Why are you laughing?

R: She didn't want to hurt your feelings. No need to try on anything.

M.A: What do you mean?

R: Björn Borg doesn't sell XXXS. For that matter, nobody does.

M.A: Very funny. I am getting medium.

R: It is your money. Are you sure?

M.A: Yeah, absolutely. Sure looks the size. Where do we pay?

A few minutes later.

M.A: 90 bucks. I paid 45 bucks for one of these?

R: Porno stuff costs a little more.

M.A: A little? This is the most expensive pair of underwear I have ever owned.

R: I am proud of you. Btw, Björn Borg.

M.A: Yeah, bastard.

R: He plays tennis.

M.A: Yeah right. And I wear porno underwear.

M.A. was more than happy to showcase his $40 underwear to all and sundry over the next couple of days. If this weren't a family blog, I would surely have put up pictures. But since it is, you will have to go see the yellow & pink flowery ones here.

Las Meninas

(The first from Museo del Prado in Madrid and the second from Museu Picasso in Barcelona)

No, no, you are not on 42, not to worry. Early morning Google reminded me of Velázquez and obviously Picasso, so generally. Also because I never got around to posting about Museu Picasso which hosts about 50 of these. Its worth going to Barcelona just to see this collection. Not kidding.

This just in

So a few minutes ago, Bill calls. This is cause for concern. We call each other at about 8 to figure out who is getting / making dinner but any call before this is usually someone dying.

"Hello?"

"Hey"

"Hey. You alright?"

"Yeah"

"Everyone else alright?"

"Who everyone else?"

"Oh. What's going on?"

"Work only"

"Okay?"

"What's up with you?"

"Me? Nothing. Work, I guess"

"Nothing else kya?"

"Between this morning and now? No"

"Okay. When do you leave?"

"I dunno. Around 7"

"Okay"

"What's going on dude?"

"Nothing. Oh, I might have to go to Paris"

"When?"

"Three days next week. We have to meet this guy at the uni there"

"Okay. Not stretching to the weekend?"

"No, I need to be back Friday"

"Oh ok. What's happening Friday?"

"Oh nothing much. Might have to work on thesis"

I drop the phone. Take a good look at it. Pinch myself. Pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Where did you disappear?"

"Here only. You have to do what?"

"Might have to go to the States end of the month"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Not sure about because we have a paper deadline first week in July. So might not get to go"

"I see. Why were you thinking of going?"

"I spoke to Karl. There's some conf in Pitt"

"You are attending this conf?"

"Not really. Remember that Princeton chap?"

"Yeah, the guy who is supposed to be in your committee?"

"Yes, he is coming to Pitt for the conf"

"And?"

"And Peter and Bob are going to be there"

"Does this mean what I think this means?"

"If I get to go, yes"

"You mean after 1.6 years, you have actually managed to get all four people who need to be there for your dissertation in the same city?"

"Yes but unfortunately, a fifth person needs to be there"

"Who is that now?"

"Me"

"What is your problem? Here, let me give you my Mileage Plus number. Call. You will get a seat"

"No, thats not the issue"

"Then?"

"I told you. There's a paper deadline for ACM early July. I need to be here"

"Says who?"

"Peter"

"Did you explain situation? That if you don't go now, he will be forever stuck with a post-doc without a phd"

"Yeah, he understands but doesn't think its such a big deal"

"For him, no"

"Well, he has a point"

"Which is?"

"We gotta do this paper"

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"Whats this paper going to give you?"

"Its for the ACM"

"So?"

"I can't not send paper for ACM"

"Again, why?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Tell me what will be acheived by you sending paper to ACM or whatever it is. Its not like you have a dearth of papers in conferences"

"You won't understand"

"I see. So why did you call?"

"What?"

"Why did you call?"

"Well, you know, just to tell you that I can go the States and finish up this month"

"But you are not doing that. So this is relevant for me because?"

"I did manage to get all people together in a room"

"Again why is this relevant?"

"Oh well. You realise the only reason I am not going is because of you"

"Oh, thats so obvious"

"No, seriously. If I actually do finish my phd, who will you malign?"

"Wait, you are telling me that the only reason you aren't finishing your phd is because then I will not have material for blog? Even BM is not capable of coming up with such nonsense"

"High praise"

"You know what? This has gone on long enough. What do you really want?"

"Those upgrade coupons that you have for Eurostar. Can I use them?"

"No"

Hang-up phone.

In which Motu (nearly) causes an international incident by breaking into the German embassy

(SB, will you talk to me now? Please.)

Prague. Across from the lovely Grand Hotel Europa building on Vaclavske Sq.


"We have to go in here"

"Its a shopping mall"

"I know"

"We are shopping?"

"Not as far as I know"

"So what are we doing in a shopping arcade?"

"The guidebook says there's some cool stuff in there"

"Wow, you actually read the guidebook?"

"I am not that useless"

"Yeah right"

"Shh. Here, look"


"Hmm..what is this supposed to mean?"

"David Černý. He doesn't really explain. This particular one is supposed to the current Vaclav dude on an upside-down horse. As opposed to the original Vaclav on his proper horse outside"

"Interesting"

"Yeah. There's more stuff by this chap. Like crawling babies on TV tower. And there is one inside the German embassy"

"Inside the German embassy?"

"Yeah. In the gardens. Its a Trabant on four legs signifying the East Germans who took refuge in the embassy in 1989"

"Can we see this thing?"

"I guess we can go there and find out"

"I guess. How far is it?"

"Mala Strana. Far. But walkable"

"Lets go"

Obviously, we got sidetracked. A hidden garden and a cubist lampost just off the Sq which no one was interested in, a Japanese restaurant tucked away in a side street, alleys with teeny views of the buildings of Old Town Sq, the very crowded and touristy Old Town Square, the very very crowded Charles Bridge, a quiet cafe with breathtaking views of the bridge and the Castle not to mention the friendly Czech at our adjacent table who gave us restaurant recommendations in Jewish town, the water-wheel, the Lennon wall all happened before we found ourselves climbing up this quiet, hilly road in Mala Strana.







"You sure its here?"

"Yeah, see all the flags. We are in the diplomatic quarter"

"If you say so"

"There, the German flag"

"Huge building"

"Yeah"

"How do we get to the garden?"

"How do I know?"

"Dude, we are here to see this Trabant"

"I know but wait...hang on. I think we keep climbing"

"But the embassy is here"

"Yeah but the garden is right behind up the hill. Here, see the map. So if we climb up and look down we should be able to see it"

"You sure about this?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

A few minutes later we cross the embassy building and find ourselves next to a childrens' park. We double back through the park to the the hedges that go around the embassy building.

"There, there it is"

"Hang on, let me take a picture"

"You can't take a picture"

"Of course I can"

I drop my backpack, put the camera around my neck and start climbing.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to take a picture"

"These are hedges. They can't hold your weight and anyway there is no grip"

"You know what? I am short and you are Bong. Unless you can drink up some magic portion and get to what the world considers normal height, this is my best bet. So give me a hand and shut up"

"Whatever you say darling"

"It is working. I got two decent pictures"



"Cool"

"Dude, there's a woman walking towards us"

"What?"

"She is waving and saying something"

"What is she saying?"

"You are the one who knows German, not me. I think she means no photos"

"Get down now"

"She might just be saying hello"

"She is German for God's sake. How many friendly Germans have you met in your life?"

"Okay I am coming down"

Scramble down. Pick up backpack. Run for five minutes. In rush, forget that we actually have to go downhill and run uphill instead. Which ended up being just as well as we got the most picture perfect view of the city on a hill that we (mostly) had all to ourselves. End of story.




Coming up in this series: Chotu Motu go to see Mayor of Adrspach

The Lying, the bitch and the wadrobe

Anthony Lane turns hard-line Marxist, thanks to Sex and the City. Don't you love the guy?

And while we are on the topic, amusing stuff from moi's workplace. So sometime last week we all got very pink e-mails from the the people responsible for the office's social calendar (i.e. the four women in Operations) inviting us all for dinner and movie night next Tuesday. Needless to say, I ignored it until one of the four women caught me at the water-cooler on Thursday.

"You haven't signed up for the movie night yet?"

"No, I can't actually. I have people visiting from out of town" Obviously I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

"That's a shame"

"Hmm"

"Maybe you can just come for dinner"

"That's not a bad idea"

"We were just going to send out an e-mail asking for people to sign-up just for dinner. Almost all the men are complaining that they don't want to see the movie but they would like to come for dinner. You know how men hate Sex and the City?"

"Hmm. Have they all signed up though?"

"Yes, most of them have. But it is only because they didn't have a choice about the movie. We are going to send out an e-mail now, so I reckon the numbers for the movie would come down"

"I doubt it"

"Really?"

"Yeah, I am up for dinner. Do sign me up for that. And let me know how many men switch to just dinner"

I talked to her again last night at the pub. Number of men who changed their minds: Zero. Now they are saying that they are going to watch the movie so that they can make fun of the women watching the movie. Go figure.

Rooster stories from Malmo (1 of X)

There are way too many stories from last month that needs to get on to the blog that I have no idea where to start. Chronological order. No, too proper for me. Reverse maybe. Or maybe I should do the London ones first. In some order, I got to do posts on the following: Chotu Motu in Adrspach, Plzen (Cat: you are not a beer drinker, are you?), Budapest, Eger, Copenhagen, TR in London[1], Rooster stories in Malmo - the list is never-ending. I should just pick one? Okey, I shall do Malmo just to make the birthday boy happy.

So the story is that the Rooster boy (aka Emil who makes regular appearances on this blog under the Sweden, Bamse labels) turned 30 a week ago and decided that he wanted a party to celebrate the occasion. In the interests of diversity not to mention illegal immigrant labor to clean up after the party, Bill, moi and an Egyptian-American friend (M) were duly invited. When I mentioned that I won't be able to take off work as I was already taking most of May off, our man threatened the small island that if they did not give me days off, the Vikings (with horns) would come flying on SAS and pillage whatever's around. So it was all settled and Bill and I were to fly to Copenhagen and take the train across the Oresund to Malmo, the most continental of all Swedish cities.

The whole trip, needless to say, was entertaining from beginning to end as it is with most things the Rooster is involved in, and since I am not good at copious trip accounts, I am just going to do conversation snippets. The first one here:

The Present

Ten minutes before we were to leave for the airport.

Bill: Shoot. I forgot something.

Moi: What now?

Bill: His sister asked to write something for the scrapbook they are making. I haven't sent anything.

Moi: Write now

Bill: Ya ok. Can you pack my stuff?

Moi: Beg your pardon?

Bill: How will I write and pack my stuff in 10 minutes?

Moi: If you don't, you can come on the next flight

Bill: Yeah? Whose money will be lost then?

Moi: Okay write. I will pack. Hey.

Bill: What?

Moi: We haven't bought anything for him

Bill: Oh no. I forgot about that

Moi: What are we going to do now? What shall we get him?

Bill: Some Bamse stuff?

Moi: Yeah I thought about that. We could get him a Skallman time machine or something. But you can't get it here.

Bill: Yeah.

Moi: What else can you think of?

Bill: Let me think. What do you get a geek who is obsessed with graphs, trees, Bamse, saving the world and well, penises?

Moi: Do NOT go there. We are not getting any of the stuff that's swirling around in your head right now. I know what to get. Book.

Bill: Well, what book?

Moi: Geek. Double major CS and music. Likes graphs, trees and well, design. What book will you get him?

Bill: When you put it that way, yeah. Why didn't I think of it before?

Moi: Because you are useless. Lets go. Finish writing now.

Obviously it all worked out fine and the Rooster boy was in love with the Gödel, Escher, Bach. Except that he was a little too excited that he began to treat it like a picture book. He walked around with it showing everyone pages of theorems, and graphs and notes and claiming how its all too cool. Bill's pretentiousness rubbing off. Not a good thing.

Coming up next:
1. The Swedish obession with God's (or as they like to call it, Bamse's) own country
2. Real Swedish men wear Bjorn Borg underwear

[1] Yeah, a very entertaining time was had. Details when I get around to it. Man does people watching like no one else I know. And the only thing that I am certain of now is that tpb does not exist in real life. First, she wasn't coming, then she had to go to Oxford, and no, she is not going to Scotland with him, I mean, how many excuses can one come up with? He is most definitely making her up so that people would think he has this cool and interesting wife and since he has an interesting wife, he must have an interesting life etc. etc.

Back and not off again for a long, long time

Yep, moi's back from last holiday of the month and unfortunately no plans to go anywhere else in the near future but before that, wait, first things first. It has been brought to my attention that certain high-brow bloggers we are all so fond of have been behaving as if their visit to London consisted of jumping from one art museum to another and that a reality check is due. And so, without further ado, I give you:

Falsie in London - The Bottlecount


(And that's just from half day Sunday the weekend before last. He was in town for a week so you do the Math)

Now that that's out of the way, here are a couple of shots from the last weekend. All people present were in agreeance that there were worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than sipping coffee in front of the apartment with a view, or well, more than one view. Lots of entertaining details on this trip coming up soon.





Anyone care to guess where these pictures were taken? You shall be rewarded with pictures of more cool structures. (Clue: The cable stayed thingie connects two countries, and is the longest border crossing bridge in the world, I am told)

Shatranj Ke Khilari

One of the many unexpected delights in Prague was stepping down to Prague Castle grounds after an overwhelming hour around the castle buildings to discover a set of about a dozen photograph installations which were part of a Jiri Vsetecka retro called Prague Walker. All the photographs on display were brilliant and this one shot during May Day Parade, 1962 particularly so.


Any online pointers to this chap's pictures would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Oh, bonus. While we are sort of on the topic, check this one out. (Might have to click and enlarge to read)

Back and not off again (for now)

Yep, back. The trip was great. Ten sunny days and got back to find that sun's been visiting this part of the world too. Miracle alright! Was supposed to be off to Chicago today for firm meeting but client intervened so shall spend the rest of the week in London. Can't complain as I need some time to recover from vacation though Dan Ariely talk (and needless to mention, Chicago in spring) would have been fun. But anyway, the news is I am back. And not going anywhere for another week.

Quick notes from travels:

1. Czech R was great. Hungary was nice. Prague was beautiful and crowded. Budapest was pretty and crowded. Fell in love with the Bohemian countryside both North and South. The Hungarian countryside reminded me of the plains of India.

2. Prague is beautiful. Its hyped and crowded and touristy but it is beautiful. Did I say it is beautiful? I have not seen a more beautiful city. (Only Berlin comes close but that's a different kind of beauty, the Chicago type)

3. All of you who informed me that Prague is super touristy, yep, you were right. If you stick to the three most popular destinations in Prague. If you could not take the time to veer off the tourist trail and lets admit it, all you had to do was to walk three minutes in any direction from the crowd, you deserve the tourists and everything that comes with . Obviously this is true of most cities and it bugs me everytime people go on an on about how touristy cities are while all they have done is jump on a tour bus or train from one square to another. What do you expect anyway? And its not like its difficult - any halfway decent guidebook would give you enough options and if you don't like them, just take the road that has the least number of people. In most cities, it works. It worked beautifully in Prague.

4. People are damn friendly in both Czech R and Hungary, especially in the former. For some reason, we weren't expecting them to be and were pleasantly surprised. Especially when you make an effort to say something in their language. Or the language of their neighboring lands. Even if the neighbour in question invaded said country all the time.

5. When they said that Hungarian is different from the Indo-European languages, they were right. It is not like once you know what it means, you can get back to its root. You can't. So do not try.

6. When you actually understand what they are saying, do not jump up and down with joy. You do not understand Magyar. They were speaking in German so that you could understand. (You can already see a long Chotu - Motu post, no?)

7. In hindsight, a car might have helped in both countries. I mean when was the last time you visited national parks without own transportation? Also, we overestimated the frequency of buses / trains, so had to make some compromises such as skip Bratislava and the Sedlec ossuary at Kutna Hora. On the other hand, there is that thing about public transportation - of seeing trains and engines in foreign lands; of figuring out the differences between CD (Czech R), OBB (Austria) and the one-and-only Deutsche Bahn all within the span of a day; of meeting people who don't have a thing in common with you and trying to speak to them; of waking up at half past five to stroll around the town and thus having the picture-perfect tourist haven of Český Krumlov all to yourself because it is Liberation Day and the only bus out of town leaves at 8 am; and last but not least, an unexpected, stolen couple of hours in a cafe outside Wien Westbahnhof exactly six years after you first fell in love with the city[1][2] that makes the prospect of public transportation a little too alluring for some of us.

8. If there was one recurring theme on this trip, it was alcohol. We missed trains and buses because of Pilsner Urquell in Plzen, Pallinka in Budapest and Bull's Blood in Eger. Your alcohol correspondent will furnish details sometime.

9. Oh, something from Bill. A special note from one bong to another: TR, go to place called Horgasztanya near the Buda embankment and have one of their special fish soups.

10. BM, MR, I missed you. Really. I absolutely hate being the one taking photographs. It is one of the things I hate in trips. For me, everytime I pick up the camera, it takes away from the experience of the place. I hate it. And yet, in this trip, I was compelled to as Bill wouldn't come anywhere near the camera and someone had to take pictures. It sucks. Yeah, the pictures were okay but that is NOT the point.

11. Bill and I managed to spend a whooping six days with each other all the time for the first time since we have known each other. After that, we did a fair bit of seeing cities alone and meeting up here and there but we survived.

12. If you have to be anyone in Czech R, you have to be called Vaclav. If you have to be anyone in Hungary, you have to be called István.

13. Lastly, what is the point of new places if it does not remind you of familiar things or people? So here are a few for those of you in the blog world:

Picture A: Post office at Budapest. I couldn't go to the central one where all of Space Bar's letters to István Gaál went to but every time I passed a post office in the city, I could only think of SB and István.


Picture B: SB, no, it has California in it so it had to be BM, no?


Picture C: Tough one as I know there are a few people who will be pissed off if I do not mention them but I will take my chances. For SB, BM, Ludwig and KM.



Picture D: Bad picture. But still, need I say anything? Really?



[1] Yeah Anoop, yeah BM, same place. And before you correct me, I know its not exactly six years but just a week off no? Please to excuse.

[2] Yeah yeah, if we had missed the train to Budapest, that would have meant we would have had to spend the night walking the streets of Vienna. Maybe six years ago this might have been not a very bad option but with current company, especially when you can play the entire night ka conversation in your head without saying a word, we both preferred to catch the train and get a good night' sleep in Budapest.

From Baker Street to Bohemia

In search of Irene Adler obviously. So no need to plan Bill says. She will miraculously just appear to him, I guess.

Anyway, yes, off again. Nope, not just Bohemia. Some Slovakia and a decent bit of Hungary thrown in too. See you in a few days.

Count, we found her!

Or the street that had Bill jumping up and down with joy.

Because the woman apparently is our man's second ever fictional crush. Where is the first, you ask? Come on now, you skipped the post above this, didn't you?

Chotu Motu in Barcelona - Part 2

Long overdue. This been sitting in draft for a few days but no time right now, so sort of half baked.

"What in the world is that contraption?"

"Sagrada Familia. Church of Sacred Family"

"I have never seen a church like this one"

"Yeah, its the most visited attraction in this city apparently"

"I wouldn't call it an attraction but yes, I can see why people want to see this"

"You reckon this guy must have been a little off?"

"A little? Way off man"

"Wonder how they let him get away with it"

"Anything in the name of the Lord I guess. Though to be fair to them, they did get him killed by pushing him under a tram or something so that he wouldn't build the thing"

"Didn't quite work no? They are still building it"

"Where were the anarchists? Weren't they supposed to be against this sort of nonsense?"

"Good point. No idea why they didn't strip this"

"They probably did and Franco put it all back. Who knows?"

"Dude, what's that green thingy at the top?"

"What green..yeah, I see it"

"You don't want to know. Guidebook claims its a cypress tree. Look at it!"



"Yikes"

"And all those things hanging all over the place - they are all supposed to be trees and leaves"

"No. You know what this looks like with all stuff coming out here and there? You remember those Bactrian camels in Lincoln Park Zoo? When they in the process of shed their skin or whatever"

"Gross"

"Exactly"

"I know. I wonder what all these people are admiring. They all seem entranced"

"Nonsense. They are all thinking the same thing just can't voice it in front of their guides"

"Could be"

"Guidebook says the other side is cleaner"

"This thing could do with some cleaning alright. Lets go check it out"

Chotu Motu start walking around to the other side.

"Coach tour territory"

"Coach in Barcelona. These Americans are crazy"

"Well, those people look very Gujju to me"

"Same thing"

"No its not"

"It is only. Dude, check this out!"

"Wow, I like this"

"I know. Is this the same structure?"

"Yes but Gaudy man had nothing to with it apparently. New chap still building stuff. Controversial design, they say"

"I can see why. But I love it"



"It is quite cool. I love the Giant Robot Jesus"

"Of course! Giant Robot. That's what it is"

"Yeah"

"But I like the soldiers better. Look at them! Too cool, no?"



"Obviously a certain Mr Lucas thought so too"

"I guess"

"Hey, listen. That guide is talking in Hindi!"

"Not surprising, is it?"

"No, shh. I want to listen"

"I don't actually"

"We know why. Because you will think its Spanish. Shut up now"

Chotu walks with the Gujju-looking Amru group while Motu walks up and down shooting pictures. A few minutes later.

"Ah, you are back. I was beginning to think they are going to adopt you or something"

"Enough. You have no idea what that chap is saying"

"What chap?"

"The guide"

"What is he saying?"

"Well, its not his fault. Poor chap. All aunties asking him why the things on this facade is so different from the other one"

"Okay?"

"Chap tells them its because nobody knows how this new facade is getting built. Apparently apna hero died under the tram without finishing it. So he comes back from the dead when no is around and carves up these things"

"Stop making things up. That's my job"

"I am not making things up"

"You don't know Hindi or I don't know Hindi?"

"I am telling you that's what he said. Not lying. You come and listen to him"

"And that would help because?"

"What can I do if you don't know the language?"

"For one, you can stop talking nonsense"

"If you say so. But its true"

Oh, before you go, bonus: the original Gaudi where the helmet people first appeared. You will have a look a little hard to find them but they are there alright