Rocku in Bengaluru

Hi Guys,

Something different, this week... I'm still working on the next story arc for Good God! Hopefully, I'll have it in place by next weekend. In the meantime, so as not to disappoint my regular readers, I am posting a humorous piece I had written last month for an essay competition. No, it didn't win. The judges had very little taste.  Here it is, enjoy!

(I also did an artwork for the piece, which you see below)

Poltu/Pen-slinger

Salut les gars

malheureusement, je ne suis pas encore prêt avec le prochain arc narratif de Mon Dieu! Peute-être ça sera en place le weekend prochain. Voilà une pièce humoristique que j'ai écrit le mois dernier (malheureusement seulement en anglais).

à semaine prochaine

Poltu

The B-B-B-Bangalore R-R-R-Rocks fusion rock concert was r-r-r-rocking, but very unsteadily.

Scant minutes ago, a gentlemanly activist from the Save the Kannada Language Forum had taken to the stage and had enquired, very courteously, why the poster said ‘Bangalore’.

“Why are you besmirching the fair name of our fair city by rendering it as the invading foreign barbarians had rendered it, many eons ago?” as he put it.

We are translating rather freely here, you understand. Being a Kannada activist, he spoke, of course, in that beautiful language whereas we are constrained to reporting these events in the foreign invading barbaric tongue.

“Bangalore – illa, Bengaluru – houdu!” added the activist, putting the whole thing in a neat nutshell.

“But it doesn’t,” protested the compère, One Robin. No, he wasn’t a bird. That was his name: One Robin.

“What doesn’t?”

“The poster. It doesn’t say Bangalore.”

“Excuse me,” said the activist, whose name, not that it matters, was Suresh English.

To avoid confusing our readers further, we shall henceforth call him Suresh. This isn’t quite accurate, because his name really was English, because his dad failed in that subject lower kindergarten three years in succession, before dropping out in disgust. It was his dad’s name that was Suresh, but as is usual in these parts, it was stuck to the front of the son’s name, which was English, which was ironical because it was the dad who had failed in it. But let’s just call our courteous activist Suresh and move on, shall we?

Now where were we? Oh yes, Suresh – or rather, English, but let’s not go there – said ‘Excuse Me’. Or rather, since he was speaking Kannada, he said ‘nimag ondishtu’, and he said it courteously, for he was a courteous activist. Language activists in other parts of the country, making the same point, would have screamed their silly heads off. But here in Bangalore – or Bengaluru, if you prefer – one does not do these things. Even language activists are polite and well-mannered.

“Excuse me,” said Suresh, indicating the large poster hanging at the back of the stage, “there is says – Bangalore Rocks.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“But – great mother goddess Durga – it says so as clear as daylight, in letters forty-five centimeters high.”

“Forty centimeters. And it says: B-B-B-Bangalore R-R-R-Rocks.”

“Same thing.”

“Not the same thing at all. B-B-B-Bangalore is different from plain old Bangalore. Like chalk and cheese.”

“Or tamarind and tea leaves?”

“If you prefer.”

Suresh considered the point. There was some justice in it.

“But in that case it should be B-B-B-Bengaluru.”

“B-B-B-Bengaluru R-R-R-Rocks?” Robin made a bird face. “It isn’t somehow, you know…”

“That is how it must be.”

“You wouldn’t prefer B-B-B-Bengaluru R-R-R-Rockus?” said Robin, who could on occasion be as cutting as the next bird.

Suresh brightened.

“Exactu! I was about to suggest the same thing myself. One does not r-r-r-rock in this city. One r-r-r-rocus.”

“One does?”

“Always. This is known as the city that rockus.”

“And how,” said One Robin, in the same sarcastic vein, “does one rocku? Not with the guitar and the drum, I should imagine?”

Suresh coughed, and indicated the musicians on stage. There were, besides a drummer and a guitarist, a woman twanging the veena, a gent tinkling the tabla, another gent with a bundle of bamboo flutes he seemed not to know what to do with. Not to mention a fourth gent whose function, as far as anybody could make out, was to stand around looking decorative.

“Ilnodi!” said Suresh, which is Kannada for “Voilà!”

“Err… yes. We are conducting sonic experiments in Fusion Rock.”

“F-F-F-Fusion R-R-R-Rock,” corrected the guitar, one Guy. No seriously, that was his name: Guy Guitar. R-r-r-rockers call themselves anything, n-n-n-nowadays.

“That is how one rockus,” said Suresh smugly. “With one veena, two tablas, several flutes and one chap standing around decoratively.”

“Can we get on now?” said Vani the veena impatiently. Veena players, as you know, sit cross-legged on the floor, and sitting cross-legged can make one very cross if there is not much happening.

“As soon as you change the poster,” said Suresh.

“But dude,” protested Robin, “we can’t change posters in the middle of a concert.”

“Take it off, then.”

“Can’t. It has our sponsors name on it. They’ll kill me.”

“Cover it with a shirt,” suggested Suresh, who was nothing of not resourceful, “or better still – tell that decorative chap to stand in front of it.”

Everyone brightened. The audience too, although one could not see it in the darkened auditorium. The audience, by the way, had maintained a tactful silence all this while, as Bangalore audiences do. They knew one of necessity takes the rough with the smooth at f-f-f-fusion r-r-r-rock concerts.

“This,” murmured the audience, “should resolve our impasse.”

They were in any case getting rather fed up of the chap whose job it was to stand around looking decorative, since he kept getting in the way of all the other chaps who were filming the concert on their mobile phones, which in effect was just about everybody, excepting one rather old-fashioned middle-aged fuddy-duddy who had come with the curious plan of actually enjoying the music. The previous generation had such quaint notions.

With the decorative chap safely at the back, reasoned the audience minus the funny old fogey, we can film unhindered.

The decorative chap moved dutifully to the back. Decorative chaps, not requiring any special skills, know they can be replaced at any time and are as a result unusually cooperative.

‘B-B-B-Blor R-R-R-s’ spat out the poster.

 “I dunno… doesn’t it sound a bit rude?” said One Robin.

Suresh English nodded in agreement.

“Move left,” he said – or rather “Left madi!”

‘Bangalore Rocks,’ intoned the poster.

Suresh frowned.

“Right madi,’ he said.

“B-B-B-Bang R-R-R,” suggested the poster.

Robin giggled. The audience tittered. Suresh frowned deeper.

“Arm spread madi,” he commanded.

‘B-B-B-Bang,’ expostulated the poster.

Suresh brightened.

“Houdu. Exactu.”

Robin brightened too.

“That looks rather cool, actually.”

The audience nodded approvingly, as did Vani, Guy and the others.

The decorative chap did not. He looked crucified.

“Jeez, dudes,” he said plaintively. “I can’t go through the rest of the concert like this.”

“Why not?” said Robin in surprise.

“I mean, you know…”

“What?”

“I mean, I look such an idiot.”

“So?”

“Besides, my arms are already hurting.”

“Oh, don’t be such a namby-pamby,” said Guy, who could on occasion be as vicious as the next guitarist. What’s more, he knew words like that.

“I’m not. You try it.”

“Lissen buddy,” said Guy dangerously, “Lemme tell you something. If you don’t do as you’re told, we’ll get another chap to stand around looking decorative.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to ––” said the decorative chap hastily.

“Actually, I never could figure out why we needed a chap to stand around looking decorative,” said Dogg the drummer – no relation to Snoop Doggy – breaking in for the first time.

“Me neither,” said Vani of the veena.

“Us neither,” murmured the audience, not counting the silly middle-aged chap who’d come to enjoy the music, who rather liked the decorative chap – unlike the other chaps on stage, he at least stood around looking decorative in key.

“Guys, guys!” cried the decorative chap. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? I’m not complaining. Promise, I’m not.”

“We thought you were.”

“No, I’m not. There was a moment of discomfort, but it passed. I’m rather enjoying standing like this with my arms spread out, don’t you know?”

“I can solve your problem,” said a gravelly voice from the door. A baton clacked on the concrete floor, a portly figure clambered onto the stage.

“Oh no, not another activist!” moaned Robin. “What are you? A morality minder? Someone from the anti-sound pollution league?”

Then he caught sight of the newcomer’s khaki uniform and cowboy headgear.

“Oops. Sorry officer. Is it lights-out already?”

The policeman indicated his wristwatch.

“I am afraid so. It is closing time,” he said regretfully, for the Bangalore policeman is nothing if not civil, and speaks in complete, syntactically correct sentences – unlike his Northern counterpart who expresses himself in abdominal grunts. Our policeman’s name, by the way, was Mahesh. Constable Mahesh. Constable was his dad’s name, which was odd because it was Mahesh who was the constable. But let’s not get into all that so close to the end of the story.

“Oh no! Can’t we do just one more song, please officer?” said Robin.

“Sorry. No singing after 10:30 PM. The law.”

“We weren’t singing. We were having a discussion on linguistics.”

“No linguistics discussions after 10:30 PM.”

“Jeez, what a city!” said Robin like a bird that had drained the bitter cup. “Anywhere else in the world you can rock all night long.”

“But this is not rock,” pointed out Suresh mildly. “We have already established that.”

“Yeah, yeah. Rock – rocku, whatever, dude.”

“No, not whatever. Rock one may, as you suggest, all night long. But it is different with rocku.”

“You mean…”

“Exactu. Rocku stopping 10:30 PM, sharpu.”

Copyright (c) Poltu 2013

A French Nightmare

Much as I love the French language, I have to admit, once in a while you get the feeling – the chaps who designed it – what on earth were they thinking? What strange specimen of the plant kingdom were they smoking?

Take, for instance the words ‘Above’ and ‘Below’. In nearly every language that I know (and I know around six or seven), these words are clear and distinct. Absolutely no chance of getting them mixed up. Which makes sense, because you don’t want to go around getting mixed up with critical words like these.

I mean - imagine a surgery is in progress. An intern is wielding the scalpel. The senior surgeon is presiding.

Surgeon: OK kid …now cut that red slithery thingy above the brown spongy blob.

Intern: OK…there!

Surgeon: Oh No!!! You Idiot! I told you to cut ABOVE the brown blob! Not BELOW it!

Intern: Oops! Did you say ABOVE? I heard BELOW….

And there you are – minus a perfectly healthy kidney when it should have been the infected gall bladder, all because of a confusion over ‘above’ and ‘below’.

Luckily, such things can’t happen in the English speaking world, not unless the intern had been drinking, because the words for ‘above’ and ‘below’ are …well…’above’ and ‘below’. Two perfectly fine, clear, no-nonsense words that can’t be confused one for the other, except after a few stiff doses of whiskey and soda. And so it is in German, Hindi, Sanskrit, Bengali, Marathi, Swahili …

All except French.

The French words for above and below are au-dessus and au-dessous.

Can you see the difference? Look again. The second word one has an additional ‘o’

And they are pronounced Oh-Des-U and Oh-Des-O

In other words, one ends in a ‘U’ sound and the other in an ‘O’ sound.

That’s it.

Now imagine you’re undergoing the selfsame surgery in a French hospital.

Now the chances of the infected gall bladder being snipped instead of a perfectly healthy kidney rests entirely on the intern’s ability to distinguish the ‘O’ sound from the ‘U’ sound.

Now imagine the intern is a Bulgarian transfer student who’s learnt French from his Spanish girlfriend.

And now imagine the surgeon has a bad cold and a sore throat.

The mind boggles.

Which leads me smartly to this week’s ‘Teaching French’ strip.

I often have this recurring nightmare…I’m locked in an office, somewhere in France, and discover a bomb under the table. Don’t ask me how or why – it’s a nightmare, remember?

I have five seconds to defuse that bomb and save my silly little life – and in the process save humanity. Or at least, that portion of humanity that resides in the 15^th Arrondissement, Paris.

On the phone, I have France’s foremost bomb disposal expert, Capitaine G. Pothier of the GIGN – the elite French counter-terrorism group, walking me through procedure.

Now in the grand tradition of Hollywood, there are two wires. If I cut the right one, the bomb is deactivated. If I cut the wrong one, well….you know how it goes.

But unlike Hollywood, I don’t have a red wire and a blue wire. No. The bomber doesn’t believe in color coding and DIN Standard electrical wiring practices.

Both red wires; and I’ve to cut the one ABOVE the ticking clock.

Or is it BELOW?

Read on….

Translations

Hum= Hmm

Bum = Boom

Trop tard = …guess...? (too late)

Teaching French-9

Teaching French-8

Sociology 101

Pen-slinger is often accused of indulging in inane and pointless humor when all around us blue-chip stocks are performing graceful, swooning dives from historical highs, and billionaires are looking worriedly at their last billion and muttering darkly about socialist revolutions, not to mentions smaller fries like you and me who are thinking nostalgically of those good ol’ days when there were those things called ‘jobs’ and ‘paychecks’. Not to mention those TGIF parties (remember those?), where the boss got drunk and did things he regretted the next day.

Anyway, recognizing that sobriety and seriousness are the watchwords in these difficult times, we revive our serious and educative 101 series.

This time we gravely turn our attention to sociology, and examine the socio-ethnic dynamics in the multi-racial South African community.

Please carefully study the following instructive and educational news item which appeared in major newspapers around the world a few weeks ago, and then answer the questions below. Evaluate what you read. Try to read between the lines, and find the ‘story behind the story’. We are developing analytical skills here.

COMPREHENSION TEXT

Indians in SA kill three over ‘Manhood’ size

(Times of India, 14th September 2008)
Durban: Three men were shot dead and two injured after an argument between a group of Indian and white visitors to a bar here, allegedly over the size of their genitals.
Superintendent Muzi Mngomezulu of the South African police confirmed that five people were arrested in the early hours of Thursday morning in connection with the shootings, which erupted after a confrontation between white and Indian patrons of the bar on Wednesday evening. Two of them were in possession of firearms believed to have been used in the killings.
A worker at the bar, who requested anonymity for fear of reprisal, said a customer of Indian origin had remarked to a white customer while they were both at the urinal in the bar that his manhood was bigger than that of the white customer. “After both men returned to their friends, the two groups began swearing at each other before the group of five Indian men left the scene and all returned with firearms. They opened fire and three guys died on the spot. The other two were rushed to St Augustine’s Hospital, where I am told they are critical.”
Mngomezulu said the argument is believed to have been racially motivated, although he could not confirm the incident at the urinal. Durban is home to two-thirds of South Africa’s 1.2 million Indians, with the unique Indian accent there often being the butt of jokes by comedians and arguments sometimes erupting over it. AGENCIES

Also view: http://www.epherald.co.za/herald/2008/09/12/news/n08_12092008.htm

QUESTIONS

Q1-What do you understand by ‘Manhood’, as used in the text?
a. Umm…do you think it is what I think it is?
b. It’s a euphemism.
c. It is an abstract, philosophical religo-cultural concept, with deep socio-psychological ramifications and extensive hagiography.
d. You don’t wanna know

Q2 - So, whose manhood really IS bigger? White South Africans or brown South Africans?
a. Are you asking my opinion?
b. The text does not make it clear
c. It depends
d. White South Africans
e. Brown South Africans

Q3 – What does this incident tell us about race relations in South Africa?
a. They are cordial
b. They are hostile
c. They are competitively healthy
d. They revolve largely around ‘Manhood’ issues

Q4. – Do women have similar arguments about the size of their ‘Womanhood’- whatever that may be?
a. Yes, of course. What did you imagine?
b. No, of course not. Only the primitive male brain is capable of such things
c. Yes and No. Yes they argue, but the arguments are usually about the size of their handbags.
d. Womanhood is an abstract, philosophical religo-cultural concept, with deep socio-psychological ramifications and extensive hagiography.

Q5. – Who is Muzi Mngomezulu?

a. He da’ man in manhood
b. High priest of an underground cabbalistic sect in Durban
c. The bartender of the restaurant where the incident took place
d. Superintendent of the South African police

ANSWERS

Q1- (What is Manhood?) Let us examine each option one by one.
a. I don’t know. What do you think it is? This is a humor blog, not Clairvoyants Inc.
b. What is a euphemism? We don’t DO big words in this blog. Next you’ll say euphemism is a euphemism for euphemism. Where does it end?
c. Huh?
d. Correct Answer! You don’t wanna know. Really you don’t.

Q2- (Whose Manhood really is bigger?) What did you answer?
a. No.
b. So what do you expect? Do you have to be spoon-fed each answer? We’re learning to analyze and read between the lines, remember?
c. What kind of wishy-washy answer is that?
d. Maybe.
e. Perhaps

Correct Answer: Irrelevant.
What do you imagine we are doing here? This is Sociology, not Comparative Biology.

Q3 – (What does this incident tell us about race relations in South Africa?)

This is a tough one, with no obviously correct answers. Let us examine the facts: A white man and a brown man are in a restaurant together: obviously segregation in restaurants no longer exists. They go to the toilet together: obviously segregation in restaurant toilets no longer exists. They take a good long look at each others manhoods: obviously, segregation of urinals no longer exists. The South Africans have done away that last artificial barrier between man and man – the urinal partition.

Having taken a look, they enter into a polite discussion about comparative sizes: this indicates an open and frank attitude to a sensitive issue which most societies usually tend to suppress under a suffocating blanket of political correctness. The discussion turns increasingly frank and candid, with views put forth with vigor and supported by complex dialectical arguments, and a few assorted invectives are thrown in for enlivening the debate: this indicates a deep understanding and passion for the subject.

Finally, when the debate cannot be resolved through dialectics, the parties concerned resolve it in the time-honored male tradition of pulling out a gun and blowing each others heads off.

To me this indicates an open, warm and honest relationship. So I would say the correct answer is A- Cordial. What do you think?

Q4. – (Do women have similar arguments?)

Honestly, I don’t have the answer to this one. Perhaps female readers of this blog would care to enlighten us on this. Please leave your answers as comments on this blog.

Q5. – (Who is Muzi Mngomezulu?)

If you take the news clipping at face value, the obvious answer is D. – Superintendent of police in Durban.

But are things really so straightforward?

On whose authority do we have this information? Some nameless, faceless entity that goes under the alias of AGENCIES. Has anyone seen AGENCIES? Has anyone shared a cup of coffee with AGENCIES? Has anyone spoken to him, her or it?

Then again, study the text – the whole thing is based on the claims of this same Muzi Mngomezulu. There is no independent corroboration. How do we know he is telling the truth? How do we know this isn’t some sort of a cover-up for a right-wing conspiracy to suppress discussions about manhood? Who is Muzi Mngomezulu, really? If all parties concerned got their heads shot off, who told Mngomezulu all these things? The whole thing looks very suspicious.

Pen-slinger will not let it go so easily. We will delve further into this matter, investigating fearlessly until the whole ugly truth is revealed.

Watch this space.

Trini wins an essay competition

Finally….the world has recognized my genius!!!!


My diffident little effort just won the first prize at the French essay writing competition at the annual Lire en Fête at Alliance Française!!!!

Ok, Ok…it isn’t the Nobel Prize for literature. Gimmi a break guys, let me savor this moment without those rude abdominal noises. It’s the first thing I’ve won, since…since…since time began, I guess. The closest I came to winning anything at anything was when I came fifth in the egg-and-spoon race in primary school -only we used potatoes, not eggs. After which I was disqualified for using a hybrid potato.

What made the whole thing special was that the winning entry was personally selected by the well-known French authoress, Pierrette Fleutiaux, who happens to be touring India right now, and she - personally – with her own hands, mind you, not a robotic arm, handed the prize to me. And note this….she looked earnestly into my eyes, shook my hand, and said that….(dramatic drum roll)…. ‘she was really, really impressed’.

Note the two ‘really’s – not just one. And I'm not absolutely sure there weren't three. Ok, you’ll just say that was a senior author being gracious to a tyro, but what the heck. She looked sincere enough and I choose to believe she meant it. And it is the first time I ever shook hands with a genuine ‘successful author’ – a breed I know exists, going by media reports, but which I despaired of ever finding. Maybe some of that magic will rub off onto me and I’ll stop being the perennial ‘struggling author’…and I’ll stop getting all that helpful advice: ‘when will you stop acting the goat and get a normal job like everybody else?’

Here’s a pic of the charming Mme Fleutiaux in the Alliance Française gardens:

And another one of me with her after the prize giving. Too bad they weren’t clicking pics at the prize giving itself ;(( No record of that historical moment.

The topic was to basically look at the cover of this novel of Mme Fleutiaux’s,

and imagine what the little girl called Trini was seeing, weaving in the teaser text on the cover of the novel (‘ Ce que j’ai vu m’a copé la soufflé, c’était si inattendu, si fantastique…’ ‘What I saw took my breath away, it was so unexpected, so fantastic…’). I did some research on the novel, and found that Trini was a kind of French Nancy Drew , and it involved a girl getting kidnapped and a mysterious Barbie-Doll-obsessed kidnapper…so I decided to give my essay a Nancy-Drew, Barbie-Doll touch, and weave in bits of the current financial crisis for good effect.

Here it is: my ‘prize winning’ entry….in the original French

http://pen-slinger.blogspot.com/2008/11/trini-fait-de-nouvelles-vagues.html

And here is an English translation….

http://pen-slinger.blogspot.com/2008/11/trini-fait-de-nouvelles-vagues-english.html

Thanks a ton to my good friend Guillaume for taking time off from his PhD at the Univ of Chile to review my essay and point out the grammatical bloopers.

And dear Mme Fleutiaux, thank you for encouraging words and graciousness… it really means a lot to a ‘struggling author’.

Fat 101 – The Fundamentals of Adipose

After numerous plaintive requests from the well-larded, I have put together this small instruction manual on all matters adipose.

As a citizen of some weight and girth, these are some fundamental facts you should keep in mind:-

Fat is GOOD for you.(1)
Fat gives you an electric and magnetic personality (2)
Fat saves you from labial injury, BO and cancer (3)
Fat is good for your arteries (4)
Fat is good for national security (5)

Explanatory Notes:-

(1) Here is a mathematical proof:
Beer makes you fat. Beer is GOOD for you (refer previous chapter: Beer101: the fundamentals of Beer). QED: Fat is GOOD for you.

(2) Fat is an Insulator. It says so in the Biology book. At least, it did the last time I read it. Insulation is what you put on a live wire. A live wire is one that carries an electric current. If you warp a wire carrying an electric current around a metal rod, it creates a magnetic field. At least, it says so in the Physics book. I wouldn’t know- I bunked Physics lab. If you take your Biology book and Physics book and soak them in water a few days, you get papier-mâché. Papier-mâché can be used for making decorative pieces for your sitting room. Not that it is relevant.

(3) Are you disturbed your lips don’t reach your spouses when you embrace? Does the tum-tum get in the way of the passionate hug? Ask yourself this: do you really want that kiss to be consummated? How do you know she doesn’t have BO? What if she bites? Did you know that lipstick is carcinogenic? You know…you are better off just keeping her at belly’s length.

(4) Roman Gladiators were all fat people. Don’t believe me? Read the history books. What’s a book? Oh…you are one of those Gen-whatever kids, are you? OK watch the BBC series on the Roman Empire on YouTube. They actually ate fattening foods on purpose – the extra layer of fat shielded them from minor sword slashes- it prevented muscles and arteries from getting cut. Think about it. This is a comforting piece of information to have, next time you get caught in a sword fight.

(5) People are sad. They laugh at the strangest things. They find it funny when someone sits on a thumb tack. Someone else. They laugh at fat people. But in a way it is good. Laughter is good for people. It reduces stress. Reduced stress lowers the risk of heart attacks, diabetes, and varicose veins. On a national scale, this means less budgetary allocation for public health and more for truly useful stuff like battle tanks and warships.

Beer 101- The fundamentals of Beer

Update Notice: due to persistent queries by confused readers, I have appended additional explanatory notes on water etc. A depressed reader who calls himself Anupam (this needs looking into more closely. It looks highly suspicious. Why would ANYONE go around calling himself Anupam, wantonly? ) claims that beer makes him fat. This will be taken up in a subsequent article “Fat 101: The fundamentals of Adipose”)




It is distressing to see the number of untrained, unlicensed Beer drinkers infesting Bangalore pubs. These people seem to imagine that Beer drinking is a casual leisure activity, something like kite flying and show-horse jumping. It is not. It is a serious activity meant only for dedicated and committed experts, who have taken the trouble to qualify for a License to Drink Beer (LDB) from the Bangalore Puber’s Association (BPA) or a similar reputable professional body.

For the benefit of the Beer illiterate, I have put together this basic manual which can help them qualify for a LDB level 1 with the BPA.

The following facts are Absolutely Imperative for any Beer drinker to know:-

1. Beer is GOOD for you. It makes you Happy1.


2. In Germany2, Beer is known as ‘Liquid Bread’


3. Beer is made from Barley, Water and Hops3


4. These three ingredients are mixed, fermented4 and distilled


5. Then you drink5 it
   

Notes:
1. Happy is a state of the ‘MIND. Mind is something you have, or don’t have. Very few people have a ‘mind’. Even fewer have a ‘happy’ mind. Those who do, invariably drink Beer.
2. Germany is a COUNTRY. A country is a big piece of land full of people. These people can be fat or thin, happy or sad. Germany is a big piece of land near Norway full of fat, happy people who drink Beer. Germany is a very happy country. Once in a while, when they aren’t happy, they start World Wars. It is better for Norway if Germans are happy.

3a. Hop is what you do when a German is not happy. You hop away very fast. When many people hop away, we use the plural form ‘hops’. For some strange reason, it is also the name of a plant with bitter tasting fruit which is added to Beer. Maybe it is because people who have to hop invariably feel bitter about it.

3b. Water is a strange colorless odorless fluid. Ulsoor Lake is full of it. You can go and have a look at it next time you are bunking office. No one quite knows what it is good for, except for adding to beer. In fact, many countries prohibit the consumption of water except in the form of beer. It is banned as a narcotic substance in Germany, Uruguay and Eretria. Possession of it can get you shot in China. DO NOT try to drink water illicitly, it can be fatal and you can get arrested. Try a mouthful of the stuff in Ulsoor Lake, and you’ll know what I mean. But don’t worry, it is quite safe when inside a beer bottle.

Here is a brave, adventurous lady drinking raw water from a wine glass. Don’t try this at home, kids. She's a professional.

3c. Barley is bit like corn, only more so. Corns are what you develop on your toes when you hike 10 miles in tight, smelly hiking boots. You don’t wanna get into more details, it gets ugly from this point on.

4. Ferment is an elegant word for rot. Yup. The same process that involves fetid smells, slimy, crawly things and large, oily bubbles. You don’t wanna think about it too much.

5. Drink is the process of holding the beer mug to the lips, and pouring it down the throat. Preferable your own. Note carefully: you ‘drink’ with your ‘mouth’. You do not, repeat do not, use other bodily orifice. Any attempt to do so will clearly mark you out as an amateur Beer drinker, the kind that pollutes Bangalore pubs.

Here is a nice lady demonstrating the process of drinking
Notice how the beer mug touches her LIPS. Not her ears or nose.

Now test your knowledge with these questions. Don’t peek at the answers until done.
Q1. In Germany, Beer is also known as liquid ….
1. Rhubarb
2. Pumpkin
3. Carburetor
4. Bread

Q2. What are the main ingredients of Beer?
Select any THREE of the following options
1. Rubber
2. Barley
3. Gasoline
4. Water
5. Industrial Waste
6. Rhubarb
7. Hops
8. Oleander

Q3. Beer, for you, is…
1. Good
2. Bad
3. OK

Q4. What is the procedure for making beer?
Fill in the Blanks:
Barley, Water and Hops are first ___________ Then the resulting slush is _________for a few days. After that, the resultant (stinking) slush is _________ After that you drink it. This makes you very ________. You must be mad.

Answers
Q1: 4
Q2: 2, 4, 7 (Readers in China can also tick 5)
Q3: 1
Q4: Mixed, Fermented, Distilled, Happy

What was your score? If you scored more than 5, go ahead, let yourself loose in the nearest Pub. If not, shame on you! Try again.

Did you score more than 9? Gotcha! You have been drinking Beer without a license, haven’t you?
Image Credits: I have absolutely no idea.... I picked these from the net a long time ago when I was researching a class project on Oktoberfest. I think they are from some German sites on Oktoberfest. I'll be glad to credit them if someone tells me where they are from.

Mél de réclamation

Today in French class at AF we learnt how to write a complaint letter or email in smoldering, liquid French. Two hours of fun dealing with such burning issues as broken beer bottles in the grocery bag getting mixed up with leaking detergent packages and baby milk powder. The conclusion: don’t order grocery online in France - or anything, for that matter, by any means of delivery– if the example mails in our textbook are anything to go by.

Teacher then asked us to compose our own complaint emails. When I showed mine to la Professeure, a glazed look covered her eyes and she handed it back expressionlessly after a few minor corrections. I took this to mean progress. Normally, after taking a look at my class work, she clutches her eyebrow violently and staggers back with an animal cry.

Reproduced below is my little morceau.

An English translation follows for the hoi-polloi.
================================================
De: G. Potier
À: Achatop.com
Objet: demander de réparation
Bonjour,
Le 15 Mai dernier, j’ai utilisé vos services pour acheter un masseur électronique pour ma femme. J’ai le regret de vous informer que le masseur était abîme. Quand ma femme a essayé d’utiliser ce masseur, elle a reçu une secousse et elle est morte. C’était une surprise - je me suis attendu une femme massée, pas une femme morte. Je suis maintenant un peu mécontent parce que j’ai aimé ma femme assez, et le masseur est maintenant inutile aussi.

Est-ce que vous pourriez me livrer une femme remplaçante, et si c’est possible, aussi un remplacement pour le masseur électronique ?

Je vous remercie à l’avance.
G. Potier
================================================
From: G. Potier
To: TopBuy.com
Subject: request for replacement
Hi,
On 15th May, I utilized your services to buy an electronic massager for my wife. I regret to inform you that the massager was defective. When my wife tried to use it, she received an electric shock and died. This was a bit of a surprise, as I was expecting a massaged wife, not a dead one. I am now somewhat dissatisfied, as I was rather fond of my wife, and the electronic massager is unusable as well.

Would it be possible for you to deliver another wife as a replacement, and if possible, also a replacement for the electronic massager?

Thanking you in advance

G. Potier

Thoughts on North Indians

Everyone seems to have an opinion on North Indians nowadays. The Lt. Governor of Delhi (btw, what on earth does a Lt. Gov. do? What does any Gov. of Delhi do, for that matter- Lt. or otherwise) recently applied his impressive analytical skills and pronounced on TV his verdict on the North Indian. In measured, ponderous tones he intoned: “Indisciplined”. Not one for half-measures, he drove the point home further “Not law-abiding” he said, leaving no room for misunderstanding “In fact, they enjoy breaking the law.”

Not to be outdone, Raj Thakery, that radical New-Age philosopher from Mumbai has been saying it with sticks and stones in recent weeks, feeling- understandably of course, that words are after all mere words, and sometimes more concrete forms of self-expression are called for.

South Indians of all description have of course long regarded the Vindhyas as their comforting natural defense against the bad-lands of the North – A trip to Delhi or any place northerly often being regarded as a descent into purgatory. “They are sooooo uncultured” is a common refrain.

As a Northy who has migrated South, I tend to sympathize. The North is strong medicine. It is the home of the boor and the uncouth. Decent sorts do exist, of course- after all I lived there, once. But if you throw a brick in Delhi, for instance, four times out of five you are likely to hit someone you’d rather not invite home to dinner. Not that anyone is likely to accept an invite to cocktails followed by community singing after being hit by a brick. In fact, it is the Delhite’s propensity for throwing bricks at his fellow citizen that caused the hon. Lt. Gov. to get all worked up in the first place. Possibly other means of anthropological research can be pursued.

But what causes the North Indian to be so boorish, uncouth and uncultured? Is it something to do with the soil? The wind patterns? Is it the diet? Or are sociological factors to blame?

Tempting as it is to grab at society and upbringing as the root cause, I regard that as mere lazy reasoning. No, deeper thinking and hard research is required to come to a more balanced conclusion.

My own research has led me to suspect dietary factors: namely, the humble Winter Radish (Raphanus sativus longipinnatus), also known in Hindi as ‘Mooli’.

Reason for yourself: is Mooli an important part of the diet in those states that claim to be disciplined and culturally advanced? - think of Tamil Nadu, Bengal, Manipur…The answer is a distinct and firm NO. Is it consumed in gargantuan quantities in the so-called ‘lunatic-fringe’ states? – Delhi, UP, Bihar…The answer is an emphatic YES. Voila! The needle of suspicion firmly points towards this treacherous white tuber.


But how can a sub-species of radish cause lawlessness? The answer is gas. Eat Mooli, and you get flatulence. The bubbles permeate through the surface membrane of the large intestine and get into the blood vessels, and thence to the brain, where they cause an air-headed or giddy feeling (known scientifically as aerius capitulum), which manifests itself behaviorologically as a lack of respect for societal and legal norms.

I have experienced this personally: I love Mooli-da-Paratha as much as the next man, and after putting away four or five at Lalitha’s Paratha Point on Dickenson Road, I am rearing to conduct anthropological experiments with a brick. (Though of course, being a cultured Bong, I use a half-brick)

This, then, is the solution: Eliminate Mooli from the North Indian diet, and all will be well.

(Images from Wiki)

Thoughts on Chennai-4: The Sea

What distinguishes Chennai most from Bangalore is of course, The Sea. What is a sea? A sea is a big expanse of salt water, with waves and froth and suchlike, which fisherfolk wash their bums in. I kid you not.

My first day by the sea in Chennai, up at dawn for a jog along the beach, having just rented a dream house by the seashore. Ran over a weedy fisherman-type sitting in a scooped out hollow in the sand. Weedy fisherman-type crawls out of his sandy dugout, cussing freely. In the hole is a brown gooey mess I do not want to dwell on too much. I am still having nightmares about it. Walks into the surf, slaps his bums vigorously, lowers his pulled-up lungi and is done for the day.

Then I notice there is a long line other fisherfolk lined along the beach, one every five meters, in a neat serrated row stretching into the horizon, where the beach, sea and sky merge into a vanishing point.

Now I don’t know if defecating on the beach is a Chennai innovation or if it is done all along the Indian coastline. A child of the heartland, my only major experience of the sea until now had been the sanitized version shown on Baywatch. In fact, I’d always associated beaches with Pam Andersons boobs. No boobs here, only bowels.

Now, obviously we don’t have bum-washing by the beach in Bangalore, not having an ocean in our backyard. Of course, we do have our expanse of large water bodies- Ulsoor Lake comes to mind. But I doubt people wash their bums in Ulsoor Lake. You’d probably die of typhus, botts and the glanders if you tried. Of course, the newspapers have been carrying stories recently of people dying of cholera in ‘RT Nagar’ or somewhere. Maybe they have been washing their bums in Ulsoor Lake.

Thoughts on Chennai-2: Sambar

After 3 months in Chennai, I can say this: these chaps don’t know to make Sambar.

Despite being a hidebound ‘Northy’ in all matters culinary, over a decade in Bangalore has made me something of an expert on the Southy nosh of idly-dosa-sambar and suchlike gastronomical excesses.

OK, maybe ‘expert’ is too strong a word, but as any self-respecting Bangalorean, I DO know this one thing: Sambar is NOT something that you are actually supposed to eat.

Sambar is this thin lurid orangish fluid that accompanies the dosa. It has these little white flecks floating in it that are designed to instigate vigorous mental inquiry: one part of you wants to stir it in horrid fascination with a spoon and ask “what on Earth are these little white flecks?” Another part of you wants to screw the eyes shut and whisper inaudibly “You don’t wanna know. You don’t wanna know.” Mental Inquiry. The purpose of the sambar-bowl, of course, is to make you think about the sadder aspects of life, so that you grow spiritually. You just look at it tensely while you nibble a few pieces quickly torn off from the edge of your fat oily dosa, and send it back with the waiter who recycles it in a big vat kept at the back of the restaurant where they breed alligators.

Now, what does one get in Chennai? Thin, crisp and chewy dosas that burst with flavor. A bowl of fragrant sambar- a pleasing yellow with oodles of veggies, that you can gulp down by the bucketful. And- listen to this carefully, for you won’t believe your ears: These maniacal Chennaites actually EAT this stuff.

Sure, the sambar in Chennai is good, and is pleasing to the taste buds. But is tickling the saporine organs all that there is to life? Isn’t there more to this vale of tears than to fill your belly?

What of the spirit? When will these Chennaites get around to building their spiritual selves?

Prince’s dilemma

The 80’s pop star Prince, purveyor of such hits as ‘Purple Rain’, is in the news again.

Having changed his name over a decade ago to an unpronounceable symbol , with the result that in text and conversation he is now referred to as “The Artist formerly known as Prince”, and having bypassed the corporate honchos by starting his own recording company, he has apparently now again raised the ire of the recording studio bosses by giving away his latest album for free with the Sunday papers. They claim it exacerbates the problems of the music industry which faces a hostile public increasingly unwilling to pay up for the song.

See this article on Wired: Prince points the way to a brighter future for music

Anyway, this little news item inspired me to write the following humor piece:-

Prince’s dilemma



The ragged flagged stone stairway fell away steeply, endlessly until it was lost somewhere in the distant gloom below. The artist formerly known as Prince looked at it nervously. There seemed a strong possibility that if he rolled down it, he would break that portion of his anatomy formerly known as neck.

“Ummm…so for this shot, you want me to fall down this staircase?” he asked.

“Yup!” said the Ron the director, who looked a bit like Danny De Vito on a west-coast camembert- wabasi butter diet.

“Suppose I break my neck?”

Ron sighed. How could he tell the truth: this was precisely what he was hoping for? It was intended as a public service to that long suffering bunch of assorted morons and blockheads, formerly known as fans. There was also the matter of the contract he had received from the heads of three major recording companies to engineer a little ‘accident’ on the sets.

“Look, TAFKAP…” he started.

“The artist formerly known as Prince” said the artist formerly known as Prince coldly.

“Yeah, yeah…whatever.”

“Or you can call me KEEEEE-SHWOOOOO-KIRIKIRIKIRITIIIIII”

This was how the symbol that was now his name was pronounced in Khoisaan, the language of the South African Bushmen which consists mostly of whistles and clicks.

“Whatever, whatever…”

“You were saying?”

“Look, this movie is insured, so we can take a little risk.”

“We can?”

“Yup!”

“So if I break my neck, you rake in ….how much?”

“Three million smackers.”

“I see…and I…on the other hand…have to content myself with a broken neck?”

“But it’s not called your neck any more” protested Ron.

“Whatever.”

“But that is precisely what is of essence.”

“Come again?” asked the artist formerly known as Prince, mystified.

“I mean, that is entirely and wholly pertinent to the point which is presently under advisement or discussion, as the case may be.”

“Ron, you’re driveling,” said the artist formerly known as Prince, kindly.

Ron took a deep breath. He reminded himself to stop having so many cocktails with his lawyer. It not only added to his girth, it was starting to affect his elocution: he was now afflicted by verbal diarrhea, in addition to the regular sort.

“Look, what I am saying… breaking a neck – yes, that hurts, I admit. But you don’t have a neck any more. You have a KEEERRRRRTITI.”

“RITITIII-KEEEEEEEERRTTTT,” corrected the artist formerly known as Prince.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So you opine, that whereas breaking a neck hurts, breaking a RITITIII-KEEEEEEEERRTTTT doesn’t?”

“Yup!”

“Have you ever broken a RITITIII-KEEEEEEEERRTTTT?”

“No, I don’t have one.”

“So on what do you base your conjuncture?”

“Well, have you broken one before?”

“No.”

“Well then?”

“Maybe you are right,” said the artist thoughtfully.

“Of course I am right!” said Ron paternally.

“Maybe I should do this once, in the interest of science,” said the artist continuing to look thoughtful.

“Attaboy! That’s the spirit!” said Ron, and slapped him lustily between the shoulder blades.

“Ah!” screamed the Artist formerly known as Prince, as he went flying over the edge.

“YIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” he shrieked as he disappeared down the staircase, twisting slowly in the updraft.

“Did you get that?” cried out Ron, worriedly.

“Yus!” said Gus. Gus was the soundman.

Ron was relieved. Put that last shriek in a tape loop, add a backing track of drum machine and the sound of a breaking electric guitars, overlay a rap from Snoop Canine Canus, and Voila! The farewell album from the former artist formerly known as Prince.

Ron smiled contentedly. The sales of that CD would be a nice little addition to the neat little pile he would be getting from the recording companies and the insurance company. That, and the undying gratitude of former fans of the artist formerly known as Prince. Public service is tough but it has its compensation.

“Hey Ron! You wanna call the ambulance now?” asked Gus.

“No Hurry,” said Ron, “and Gus…”

“Yus?”

“Don’t call me Ron any more. From today, I'm $.”

And the director formerly known as Ron smiled evilly.

(Image Credits: All images taken from the Prince entry in Wikipedia, please refer it for original credits)

Like this little piece? You'll love my full-length humor novels, especially the 'Perl' series of comedy-adventure novels. Check out my Author's Website:-
http://www.poltusworld.com
Click on 'My Books'. 
You could also search Amazon.Com for books by Poltu

Elegy of a Bong in pain

Yesterday our French class was rocked by anguished wails in Bengali emanating from the floor. Since it is difficult to concentrate on French pronouns when a Bong gent is apparently being murdered in the basement to the accompaniment of rock guitars and a symphonic orchestra, the teacher went down to investigate.

Apparently a rock group from Bengal called Mohiner Ghoraguli was practicing in the basement of Alliance Française for their show on Saturday.

Nothing to be done: they were there at the invitation of the director. Back to the pronouns.

“Ouch! What was that?” said the teacher, slipping into English when a particularly gruesome note was struck.

“That,” I said portentously, as the only Bengali in the class, “was the sound of a Bong in pain.”

“It is indeed very painful…for the listeners.”

“Yes. Let this be a lesson to you. Never hurt a Bong. He is liable to hire a 21 piece orchestra and sing about it.”

After the class, I went down to the basement to investigate. The basement was bursting with Bongs wielding sundry musical instruments. As I suspected, there was a 21 piece symphonic orchestra and diverse rock musicians with guitar, bass and drums. Instructions were being yelled back and forth in Bong, and musicians were being harried. And music was being made. It was all very exciting sight, and very ‘Bong’, so I stayed on.

Actually, from up close, they didn’t sound half as bad. In fact, without the intervening layers of concrete, they were pretty good. The supremo seemed to me an interesting methuselahan figure in flowing white beard dyed fluorescent magenta and a dinky multicolor beret. After pack-up was announced, I corralled the man for an interview.
He seemed a bit depressed that I represented an obscure rock journal, but he relented eventually.

Methuselah’s real name was Ranjan Ghoshal. He was one of the original members of Mohiner Ghoraguli – touted as the first rock band in India. MG was started in Calcutta in 1975 by Gautam Chattopadhya, at a time when rock bands were unheard of in India. There were seven original members, playing a diverse range of instruments: guitar, drums, bass, double bass, cello, viola, and others. They aimed at an unusual sound, based on melody with influences from Bengali folk music. Their songs were exclusively in Bengali, and the lyrics strove to a new level of realism till then unknown in literary circles in Calcutta – talking about the dreams and anxieties of ordinary middle-class Calcutta youth, in ordinary street patios.
The name of the band, which means ‘Mohini’s Horses’, came from a phrase in a poem by the Bengali poet Jibananda Das. It was also used in the title of their first album: ‘Shombhigno pakhi kool au mohinir ghoraguli’. They released two more albums ‘AUB – Anjana Udanto Bostu’ which is basically Bengali for UFO, and ‘Drisghoman’.

They got to play as the only Indian band in the 1980 Jazz Fest at St Pauls Cathedral in Calcutta, but otherwise didn’t have much success – India wasn’t ready for them yet, and they disbanded in 82-83 to pursue their individual careers.

There was a revived interest in them in 1989-90, when indi-pop burst on the scene, and Gautam Chattopadhya released some of their old, unpublished music, and they started experimenting with music again. Unfortunately, Gautam passed away last year, leaving a vacuum.

The current show is a tribute to Gautam by the remaining original members of MG. They have been joined by a large team of young musicians, most of them students of Abharam Majumdar, one of the original members. They will be performing most of the old MG songs, and some new numbers, but most of the musicians will be new, and the singers will all be new.

Some of the important songs that they will perform are : ‘Hai Bhalobhasha’ (Oh Love!), Runaway, and ‘Shono Shodhajon’ .

They describe their music as a musical movement, and experimentation in melodic music ranging over rock, jazz, ethnic and folk music.

From what I heard, there should be a treat in store for Bangaloreans.

String Sick at Sunday Jam

This is an article that I have written for the new online music mag - Diamonds. It should come out in the inaugural edition in March-April (hopefully). Of course, that will be an edited and heavily slashed version. This is the complete, unedited draft.

Sunday Jam is Bangalore’s big monthly youth event. It is a free rock concert organized by a music school called Guruskool, and kindly sponsored by Levi’s who get to put large red logos all over the place. Held on the first Sunday of every month, it goes on for about six hours, and has gigs by some new bands, some more established bands, and one featured artist – generally a visiting group from some other city or abroad, or one of the big Bangalore groups.

This is the place where Bangalore’s best and brightest cut their musical teeth – Nearly all of Bangalore’s more established groups have played their first gig at Sunday Jam, or it’s older avatars. The venue keeps shifting – SJ keeps getting kicked out of venues for ‘causing a nuisance’, as they say in India.

This month, it was at a rather romantic location – the open air auditorium of the Sankara Arts Foundation on the outskirts of Bangalore. With acres of lawns, gnarled old trees, Japanese ponds and pagodas, cobbled walkways and mysterious terracotta artworks, it was an unusual location for a rock show, but what the heck – death metal rockers have a heart too. Somewhere.

I arrived two hours early to enjoy the sylvan surroundings and catch up on my French homework. My French teacher at the Alliance models her behavior on Ozzy Osborn if you don’t do the devoir. Grown men have been known to cry. First, I checked out the killing floor – the show was to take place in a Greek-style open air amphitheater. At the back of the estate, there was a bowl shaped depression with raw concrete steps cut into three sides, and the stage on the fourth, made up of rough hewn blocks of granite. The depression was surrounded by trees and bushes, and overall, it made a pretty sight in the cool winter afternoon sun. Technicians were busy testing the rather impressive sound system. Levi’s clearly does not stint on financial support. Otherwise, the place was bare.

I found me a shady tree with a granite bench underneath, and started wrestling with the en and y pronouns, under the watchful eyes of a slightly scary piece of terracotta modern art which represented, as far as I could tell, a disemboweled elephant in heat. My reverie was disturbed by a gaggle of alarmingly pretty Naga babes, from the North East of India, chattering away in a language called Nagameses, which is vaguely similar to my own mother tongue, Bengali.

My antenna crackled to full-alert. Babes at the Sunday Jam! Now, you do get the odd rocking babe at SJ, but it is largely a guy thing, with babes preferring the execrable indi-pop shows. The focus of this beauteous bevy seemed to be a rather morose, languid, long-haired youth toting a guitar. I burned with jealousy. I have been looking disconsolately for a girl for the past year. Here was a chap whose main problem in life seemed to be: how to get rid of them.

He was shooing them off- ‘I have manly guy things to do’, he seemed to be saying, ‘like tuning my guitar’. Then he stumbled towards me.

“Mind if I share your bench?” he asked sadly.

“Doesn’t belong to me” said I, courteously. Mentally, I rubbed my hand in glee. This is where I get intros to those babes.

“Hi, I’m Zoheb” says the youth.

“You playing today?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m with a band called String Sick.”

“Played here before?”

“No, this is our first Sunday Jam.” Shy smile “Actually, this is our first gig.”

Bright idea, the kind that wins Pulitzer prizes: why don’t I interview these chaps: my first article as a rock journo for the first edition of a new rock mag…. why not cover the ecstasy and the angst of a band doing its first gig?
Evil scheming mind: ‘And maybe I’ll get an intro those babes’.

“I’m a rock journalist,” sez I, with a profound Pulitzer prize winning expression “with a rag called Diamond. Mind if I interview you?”

Zoheb brightens visibly. ‘Fame, here I come!’ a little bird whispers in his head. Poor fish, doesn’t know I am an unknown hack from an unknown mag.

“Sure, I’ll round up the other guys! Don’t want them to think I’m hogging the limelight.”

We ran into the other two who made up String Sick by a kind of miniature version of a Greek ruined temple. Neat backdrop for a group photo. Click.

The ‘others’ were Wasim – an earnest, energetic young man with ‘I’m gonna change the world’ look about him, and Rakesh – taciturn and phlegmatic ‘No one bothers about drummers, anyway’.

Wasim was clearly the boss, from his body language, but he earnestly claimed this was a group of equals. All decisions by the board with memos signed in triplicate.

Pad whipped out. Pencil duly chewed.

This was the personnel lineup of String Sick:

Zoheb: Lead
Wasim: Bass + vocals
Rakesh: Drums

Beginning of String Sick:

Wasim: I consider myself a singer songwriter. I was working on songs that expressed my anguish at the injustices that I see around me. I was playing solo with an acoustic guitar. I came across Zoheb and we decided to form a band. We were looking for a drummer and found Rakesh on Orkut.

Zoheb: I was gigging in Assam with some local bands, at school and college. Then I got into an Engineering College in Bangalore, and moved here. I came across Wasim, we are in the same college. We had similar musical interests…

Rakesh: All of us met through a thread in one of the blog sites, and the lead guitarist (Zoheb) found me and we found our musical interests pretty much on the same grounds, not to mention at that point it was just desperation to start a band ASAP and get on stage and kick some ass.

Wasim: The early days were complicated. They still are. We were looking for another guitarist who had gigging space. The drums are especially a problem, we couldn’t fit them into either of our rooms, and neighbors complain. We found a guy, but it didn’t work out. We found another one, and gigged at his place for a while, but he quit, started his own band. He even tried to steal our drummer! Finally, I took up bass to support the group, and we have decided to stick to the three piece format. We moved Rakesh’s drums to my flat. Now there isn’t any place to move, but we manage to gig there. We keep the practice session to decent hours to avoid annoying the neighbors.

When did you start?

Zoheb: I guess you could say we started officially as a band in August 06. We have been jamming regularly since Oct 06

The String Sick sound:

Wasim: We were very clear right at the beginning that we did not want to go the death metal way, which is what most new Bangalore bands start with. We want to do something different, something more socially relevant. So no fuzz, distortion and growling about death and mayhem from us! We play Hard Rock with a touch of Punk, with clear melodic lines and meaningful lyrics.

Rakesh: We thought that the whole of Bangalore and other parts of India are into Heavy Metal, so the only way we would get noticed was to play something different, which was hard rock/punk, against the shitty acts of government and how f***ed-up our system is, etc. We wanted our music to have a rebellious sound and send a clear message to people.

Tell me about your songs…

Zoheb: I’m from Assam. It is beautiful, like the rest of North East, but there is a great deal of frustration there at the lack of development, heavy handed behavior of security forces, all the false encounters….we feel the central government does not care about us. On the other hand, there is the fear of ULFA terrorists. There is a feeling of isolation from the rest of the country. My song ‘Freedom’ is my attempt to put a voice to these issues. I want to liberate people…
-What do you want to liberate them from? From their eardrums?
Ha-Ha. From tyranny of any sort…whatever the source.

Rakesh: I’m into plain old-fashioned rock with a lot of melody, without distortion. I am working on a couple of own comps …simply about life, coz there is a lot to write about especially betrayal, infidelity, friends, traveling…

Wasim: I want to make a difference with my songs. I do believe that rock can be used to change the world. The Punk movement of the late 70’s really excites me for this reason…groups like The Clash were doing something really important, back then. They were exposing the hypocrisies and inequalities in society. I am haunted by their song London Calling. It raises issues that are even more relevant today…the lyrics were about a nuclear winter, but with minor changes it might as well apply to global warming…

Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thinEngines stop running, but I have no fear'
Cause London is drowning and I live by the river

When I hear Neil Young’s ‘Keep on rocking in the free world’, it gives me the goose bumps when I hear things like
I see a girl in the night
with a baby in her hands
Under an old street light
near a garbage can
Now she put her kid away, she's gone to get a hit
She hates her life, and what she's done with it
That's one more kid, that'll never go to school
Never get to fall in love, never get to be cool

Btw., we are playing that song, tonight.

I try to do something similar with my song ‘I’m a little punk’, but in an Indian context…it refers to all the scams and the political corruption.
i've got my canvas on,
i've got my guitar on,

ready to burn,
and im set and done
but im a little punk,
a poor little punk

i've got five bucks on me,
i read a million dollar scam,
bomb's hittin the ground,
its the sound of the underground

Something that affected me deeply was hearing that a friend had died. We hadn’t spoken in years…I always though I’d call him up, but I never got around to it. Then I heard he had died. Death looks so meaningless, sometimes. I don’t want to die a meaningless death. I want to make a difference, before I die. My song ‘God, I refuse to die’ is about this.

with so much happenin here,
you sit there still and you stare.
oh god wont you lend me a hand,
will all this come to an end?

god i refuse to die,
I'll stay for the children who cry
god i refuse to die
……..
god i refuse to die,
hunger is claiming lives.
hey god....i.....refuse to die,
hear my prayer tonight.

Are you playing any of your songs tonight?

Wasim: Only ‘I’m a little Punk’. The others are all acoustic, so it won’t fit this gig. They’ll boo us of the stage if we play acoustic. Other than that, we’ll play some covers of Perl Jam and The Ramones. No one talks of The Ramones any more, but I feel they were a really important group.

Influences? Instruments? What do you do, other than music?

Zoheb: I am in 3rd year in Engineering college, I have been playing the guitar since 3 years. My influences are big groups of the 80’s…Van Halen, the Glam Rock movement…My guitar is an Ibanez G170.

Wasim: My influences are Punk, Blues. I have been playing the guitar since 3 years. I use a GBA bass. I am in final year Engineering. I suppose I’ll get a job of some sort, soon.

Rakesh: I 've been drumming for the past 2 years now. My musical influences.. 70s rock bands like Grateful dead, Grand Funk Rail Road…My favorite drummers are Keith Moon (The Who), Mike Portnoy (Dream Theater), and Lars Ulrich (Metallica).
Right now, I have a DB Chinese kit, which is pretty decent for its price. As we go along, I will be picking up a Pearl kit, which is on my wish list. My best gift this year was from my sis who gave me a Yamaha guitar for my birthday.

Girls?

Wasim: Hey! Thanks to Zoheb, we are the only band with groupies. Do you see any other band with groupies?

Rakesh: But he won’t introduce us to any of them…

Zoheb: Those girls are my sister and her friends (disbelieving looks). I’ll introduce you, if you want.

All: WHEN ?????

Zoheb: Soon….

Interview over. Time to register for the jam. The organizers are still setting things up. The other bands are lolling about on the other side the amphitheater, on its grassy rim under the shade of a tree. Cigarettes dangling, guitars slung about like machine guns.

“Bunch of posers!” sneers Wasim “We are here to make serious music, not pose.”

“Should we join them?”

“Join the posers? No way!”

“There does seem to be a nice shade there…”

We are getting envious looks. The only group with groupies.

The organizers hand out registration forms. First time bands will be given slots at random. Those who get the last slots may not get to play at all, today. The concert always overshoots the planned time.

The band is nervous. Will we get a chance to play today?

The slots are announced. String Sick is the second band up. Great!!

People are still milling about on the stage. Last minute sound checks by a drummer and a guitarist – A bit more on the bass monitor please…. Before we realize it, the show has already started. The first band, Neolithic Silence launches into what they describe as 'Melodic Heavy Metal'. This is their second time at Sunday Jam. It’s a relatively new group. It’s their fifth gig. They play some heavy metal covers and an original piece.

The boys are tense, waiting for their turn. String Sick is announced. They are still rooted to the spot, in the stands. ‘Go!’ we urge. The groupies, I and a couple of other friends of the band. They come to life, and scramble towards the stage with their guitars.

No elaborate sound checks and fine tuning the monitors, like the more ‘experienced’ groups. The boys just plug in and launch straight into their instrumental sound check piece, ‘Distortion Blues’.

Wasim takes the mike.

“Sorry to disappoint metal freaks, but we play hard rock, with a touch of Punk.”

Derisive laughter from a bunch of smart alecks at the back.

String Sick launch into ‘Keep on rockin’ in the free world’ – the Pearl Jam version of the Neil Young song.
Wasim’s voice is initially a bit weak, but it gets stronger. It’s the first time he is singing with a mic. He is clearly uncomfortable. Rakesh keeps a steady rhythm, without getting into pyrotechnics. Zoheb plays a very competent lead.

Desultory clapping. They haven’t been booed off the stage yet! The boys are getting more confident. They launch into The Ramones ‘Poison Heart’. It sounds refreshing in a Death Metal concert. The clapping is more enthusiastic this time.

“We’ll now play our own comp. - I’m a little Punk”

It goes off without incident, and the boys close with the Dead Moon song ‘Its Ok’ - again, the Pearl Jam version.

Very respectable clapping. Relieved, the boys scramble off the stage with their guitars, and a tall thin guy with a guitar takes the stage. Sheshank is going to play solo. Sheshank is clearly a talented guitarist. He lays down a blistering lead over a recorded track.

Wasim, meanwhile, has called a debriefing meeting at the back of the stand. I am invited to join and critique their performance.

There were some weaknesses, but for a first gig, it was pretty impressive. Actually, by the average standard of Sunday Jam gigs, it was really excellent. The choice of songs was unusual, and the sound clear and confident. Rakesh’s drumming could have done with some more showmanship, but that will come with time. Zoheb was good. Wasim’s voice was a bit nasal, and he seemed uncomfortable playing bass and singing simultaneously.

“I’ve never sung with a mic before!” protests Wasim.

“Maybe you can experiment with holding the bass a bit higher up, so that you can sing into the mic more comfortably?”

Anyway the singing wasn’t that bad. Any day better than the horrible growls and roars of the death metallers.

“I couldn’t hear anything on my monitor” complained Zoheb “I was playing blind.”

“You should have complained during the sound check. That’s what it’s meant for.”

But overall a great first gig. Back slapping and hugs all around. We go back and join the groupies. Zoheb still hasn’t introduced any of us to them.

Sheshank was followed by another first time band. Nice funky sound. Led Zep without the vocals. Followed by another two death metal groups: Pharos and Afterlife.

The featured artist of the day takes the stage: Nemanja Rebic from Serbia. He is a Jazz / Classical / Rock guitarist studying Indian classical music in Bangalore. He plays Macedonian and gypsy folk tunes on an ovation acoustic. Pleasant change from the unremitting heavy metal. A group of headbangers mutter resentfully.

I try talking to the pretty young thing sitting next to me. She looks at me as if I’ve crawled out from under a rock. The groupies seem to have no interest in anyone except Zoheb. What do they see in this guy? Maybe I should try the long-haired, poetic look as well.

Back to Heavy Metal. Theorize, Spellbound, Heavywork and the one man band Ligesh.com follow one another in quick succession. Lyrics that sound like the wooshing roar of a steam engine rushing into a tunnel. Guitars that sound like a roadway accident between a truck carrying bedsprings and a zoo-van packed with Siamese wildcats.

Zoheb’s girls decide they have had enough and leave for the day. Suddenly the place seems drab, without them. There seems to be no point in sticking around. I leave too.

© Poltu

Being Funny in French -4

Here is a humorous French piece I wrote on Munich and the Oktoberfest for my 1B term project at Alliance Française. We were supposed to write a long essay on our favorite city, and we have to read it out during the exam in December. Naturally, I chose Munich, my favorite city in the whole world (after Bangalore, of course). Naturally, as a budding humorist, I had to try and make it funny. I hope it doesn’t come off as if I am making fun of Munich or the Germans. I really love Munich, it is my second home, and I truly admire Germans. I am sure my German friends will take this harmless bit of leg-pulling sportingly.

The English translation is below the French version, for the dumb-heads who don’t understand French (learn it! It is the most fun language in the world – weird but fun).

A million-billion two-fifty thousand and a half thanks to the gorgeous and mesmerizing La Laxmi, my somewhat overpowering French teacher, for correcting the grammar and laughing at my silly humor, and making me fall in love with French. One of these days I plan to write a French essay on her, when I am out of the range of her gun.

Munich, les Allemands, et l’Oktoberfest

Munich est une belle ville. J’aime Munich. Munich est plein d’Allemands, pour je ne sais pas quelle raison. Mais, j’aime les Allemands.

Munich est une ville sérieuse. Les Allemands sont un peuple sérieux. Ils font tout très sérieusement. Ils travaillent sérieusement. Ils jouent sérieusement. Ils mangent sérieusement de la glace. Ils font d’amour très sérieusement. Une liaison amoureuse des Allemands est comme une réunion d’affaires. Une réunion d’affaires très dure.

Munich se trouve dans la plus belle région d’Allemagne. La rivière Isar traverse Munich. Il ya a beaucoup de lacs et de forêts au tour de Munich. Le parc national Brechtesgaden est à côte de Munich. Munich est à côte des Alpes. Si vous habitez à haut d’un grand appartement, et si le ciel est clair, et si vous aves bu une bière, vous pouvez voir les Alpes sur l’horizon. Si vous avez bu trois bières, vous pouvez voir les Alpes quand le ciel est nuageux, aussi.

Au milieu de Munich est l’Altstadt. Altstadt signifie la ville ancienne médiévale. En fait, le vrai Altstadt a été détruit pendant la Deuxième Guerre Mondiale. C’est vraiment la reconstruction de la ville ancienne, la nouvelle ville ancienne. Au milieu d’Altstatd est la place Marienne. Au milieu de la place Marienne est le Rathaus. Rathaus signifie la mairie. Les Anglophones les appellent la maison des Rats. Les Allemands n’aiment pas les Anglophones.

Tous les jours, à midi, une danse des marionnettes de bois à lieu au-dessous de l’horloge du Rathaus. On appelle la danse des marionnettes le Glockenspiel. Les Anglophones disent que les rats pourchassent les marionnettes. Les Allemands vraiment n’aiment pas les Anglophones.

Munich est très célèbre pour le Glockenspiel. Les touristes viennent de partout dans le Monde pour voir le Glockenspiel. Il dure cinq minutes. Apres les cinq minutes, les touristes se demandent, pourquoi ils sont venus.

Munich est aussi fameux, ou infâme, pour le camp de concentration Dachau, et parce que Hitler a commencé sa carrière à Munich. Mais, on ne le discute pas avec les amis allemands. Si on veut qu’ils restent les amis.

Munich est célèbre aussi pour l’Olympia-Zentrum, le musée Deutsches Museum, le jardin Englisher Garten, et le musée de BMW.

Mais, Munich est le plus célèbre pour l’Oktoberfest. J’aime l’Oktoberfest.

L’Oktoberfest est la fête d’octobre. Elle a lieu en septembre. J’aime les Allemands.

Les Allemands aiment L’Inde. Les Indiens aiment les Allemands. Quelques Allemands, au moins.

Les Allemands ont emprunté beaucoup de choses indiennes. Ils ont emprunté même la fête des Bengalis (ou de Bongs), le Durga pûjâ. L’Oktoberfest est le Durga pûjâ des Allemands. L’Oktoberfest a lieu une semaine avant le Durga pûjâ. Les Allemands sont toujours pressés.

Pendant la Durga pûjâ, les Bongs de toutes sortes rendent un culte à la déesse Durga. Pendant l’Oktoberfest, les Allemands de toutes sortes rendent un culte au dieu Bacchus. Les Bongs portent les bons vêtements et noient la déesse Durga dans l’eau boueuse. Les Allemands portent les bons vêtements et ils se noient dans la bière boueuse. Certaines disent qu’ils s’immergent au niveau des cochons. Je ne suis pas d’accord. Je dis, ils s’immergent presqu’au niveau des cochons. J’aime les Allemands.

Les Bongs portent des vêtements traditionnels comme des dhotîs et des saris à la fête. Les Allemands portent des vêtements traditionnels comme des lederhosen et des dirndls à la fête. Certains ne portent rien. Un gros allemand qui ne porte rien n’est pas beau à voir. Ils sont arrêtés rapidement. Il gâche l’image. L’Oktoberfest est après tout, une attraction touristique.

Le dirndl est une robe longue et bouffante, qui cache tout ce qu’on veut voir. Je n’aime pas le dirndl. Il est célèbre parce qu’une fille, qui s’appelle Heidi, a fait un film sur le dirndl, ça fait longtemps. Heidi était une fille bête.

Les hommes portent des lederhosen et les femmes portent des dirndls. Normalement. Aujourd’hui, on ne sait pas très bien. Quelques hommes essayent de porter le dirndl. Ils sont arrêtés rapidement. Il gâche l’image. L’Oktoberfest est après tout une attraction touristique.

Le lederhose est une culotte de cuir très serré, qui laisse exposer les jambes. Un gros allemand en lederhose serré avec des jambes poilues est une vision alarmante. On ne l’oublie pas facilement.

Quelques femmes essayent de porter le lederhose.

C’est un vêtement curieux. Il est tellement serré, qu’il arrête la circulation du sang. La derrière se démange. C’est impossible de faire pipi. Après un peu de bière, C’est impossible on ne fait pas pipi. On boit beaucoup de bière pendant l’Oktoberfest.

Les femmes veulent pisser toujours, de toute façon. Elles ont la plomberie défectueuse.

Une fille sexy en lederhose serré, dont la derrière se démange, qui veut pisser désespérément c’est une vue intéressante. C’est pourquoi, très peu des femmes portent des lederhosen. En fait, j’ai ne jamais vue une fille en lederhose. C’est seulement mon fantasme. J’ai un fantasme fou.

Le Durga pûjâ a lieu dans des grandes tentes dans plusieurs champs en Inde. L’Oktoberfest a lieu dans beaucoup de grandes tentes dans un champ à Munich. Le champ s’appelle Theresienweise. Aller à l’Oktoberfest s’appelle « Auf der Wies’n «. Les Allemands aiment aller « Auf der Wies’n «. J’aime les Allemands.

Les tentes sont pleines de gros Allemands, qui boivent très sérieusement la bière et dansent sur les longues tables minces. De nombreux allemands ivres dansant sérieusement sur les longues tables minces, est une vision alarmante. On ne l’oublie pas facilement. Mais, j’aime les Allemands.

Pendant le Durga pûjâ, on prie à Durga, on rencontre des amis, on se parle et on mange bien. Pendant l’Oktoberfest, on boit. Et on boit. Et on boit. Ensuite on fait pipi.

De temps en temps on mange aussi. Ils ont ce grand pain tubulaire, en forme d’un cœur. Il s’appelle Brez’n. Il a un goûte bizarre comme rien d’autre sur la terre. Il est fait par des boulangers qui boivent de la bière. C’est pourquoi, ils oublient de l’enlever du four à l’heure. Il goûte comme le liège brulé. Les Allemands l’aiment. J’aime les Allemands.

Ils mangent aussi le poulet rôti. Il s’appelle Brathend’l. Un bon million de poulets reviennent à Durga pendant l’Oktoberfest. Durga est très occupée pendent l’Oktoberfest.

À l’extérieur des tentes, on prend un bratwurst d’Oktoberfest extra-long. C’est une saucisse avec un mètre de longueur, qu’on met dans une baguette d’un mètre. Il a l’air très drôle quand on le mange. Il a l’air comme… .Il a l’air comme…. Il a l’air comme on mange bratwurst d’un mètre. Quoi d’autre ? Que pensiez-vous? Votre fantasme est fou.

Après on mange, on pète.

Tennyson a pris l’inspiration pour ‘le charger la brigade léger’ après il visitait l’Oktoberfest.

« Cannons à gauche, Cannons à droit, salvaient et tonnaient. «

C’est très alarment. On ne l’oublie pas facilement.



La vie a beaucoup de cycles. La vie a beaucoup de rythme. Le cycle de naissance et de mort. Le rythme du tonnerre et de la pluie, et le gazouillement des grillons.

Le rythme l’Oktoberfest est : boire-pisser-péter
Le cycle l’Oktoberfest est : boire-pisser-péter

Je menti, il va plus profond.

Il va :
boire-pisser-péter
boire-pisser-péter
boire-pisser-péter
….et ainsi de suite, ad nauseam.

Ad nauseam est le Latin pour « jusqu'à on a envie de vomir ». C’est très approprié. On a très envie de vomir à l’Oktoberfest. Le cycle d’Oktoberfest s’arrête quand on fait :
boire-pisser-péter-vomir.

Apres qu’on vomit, on va chez soi. Si on peut marcher. Autrement, les amis nous portent. S’ils peuvent marcher. Autrement, les gendarmes jettent le tout dans la poubelle. S’ils ne sont pas ivres. Ce n’est pas agréable, de passer la nuit dans une poubelle allemande pendant l’Oktoberfest. C’est très alarmant. On ne l’oublie pas facilement.

Quelques Allemands ne s’arrêtent pas, même après qui ils vomissent. Ils reviennent dans les tentes. S’ils les ont quittées premièrement. Quelques Allemands ne sont pas très agréables. Mais, j’aime les Allemands.

L’Oktoberfest est un grand évènement touristique pour Munich. Il engendre l’argent égal au PIB d’un petit pays.

L’Oktoberfest a 7 million visiteurs toutes les années.

6.6 million litres de bière sont bus à l’Oktoberfest. C’est suffisent pour laver plusieurs troupeaux d’éléphants. Plusieurs troupeaux d’éléphants très heureux.

7 million litres de pipi sont pisés a l’Oktoberfest. Ils ont les pissoirs très grands. On peut s’y perdre.

Vous pouvez poser, pourquoi 6.6 million litres de bière et 7 million litres de pipi ? D’où vient le pipi supplémentaire? Une bonne question. Ils viennent de la citronnade et du jus de pomme. Quelques pervertis fous les boivent. Ils sont arrêtés rapidement. Il gâche l’image. L’Oktoberfest est après tout une attraction touristique.

1 million mètre cube de méthane sont pétés à l’Oktoberfest. C’est suffisant pour l’électricité d’un village indienne pour une année.

Pour finir, j’aimerais dire:

Vive la bière!
Vive Munich!
Vive les Allemands !
Vive la France !
Pourquoi France? Parce que je veux un peu de notes.

Munich, the Germans and the Oktoberfest

Munich is a beautiful city. I love Munich. Munich is full of Germans, for some reason. But I love Germans.

Munich is a serious city. The Germans are a serious people. They do everything seriously. They work seriously. They play seriously. They eat ice cream seriously. They make love seriously. A German love affair is like a business meeting. A very grim business meeting.

Munich is in one of the most beautiful regions of Germany. The river Isar crosses Munich. There are many lakes and forests around Munich. Munich is close to the Alps. If you live at the top of a tall apartment block, and the sky is clear, and you have had a beer, you can see the Alps on the horizon. If you have had three beers, you can see the Alps even when the sky is cloudy.

In the middle of Munich is the Altstadt. Altstadt means the old city. In reality, the real old-city was destroyed in WW2. This is in reality a reconstruction of the old city, a new old-city. In the middle of Altstadt is the Marienplatz. In the middle of Marienplatz is the Rathaus. Rathaus means town hall. English speakers call it the Rat House. Germans don’t like English speakers.

On all days, at noon, a dance of wooden puppets takes place under the Rathaus clock. This puppet dance is called Glockenspiel. English speakers say the rats are chasing the puppets. The Germans really don’t like English speakers.

Munich is very famous for the Glockenspiel. Tourists come from all parts of the world to see the Glockenspiel. It lasts for five minutes. After the five minutes, the tourists wonder why they came.

Munich is also famous, or infamous, for the Dachau concentration camp, and because Hitler started his career here. But one doesn’t discuss this with German friends. Not if one wants them to remain friends.

Munich is also well known for the Olympia Zentrum, the Deutsches Museum, the Englischergarten, and the BMW museum.

But, Munich is most famous for Oktoberfest. I love Oktoberfest.

Oktoberfest is the feast of October. It takes place in September. I love Germans.

The Germans love India. The Indians love Germans. Some of them, anyway.

The Germans have borrowed many things from India. They have even borrowed the Bong festival, Durga Pooja. Oktoberfest is the German Durga Pooja. Oktoberfest takes place 1 week before Durga pooja. The Germans are always in a hurry.

During Durga Pooja, Bongs of all description worship the goddess Durga. During Oktoberfest, Germans of all description worship the god Bacchus. During Durga Pooja, Bongs wear nice clothes and drown Durga in muddy water. During Oktoberfest, Germans wear nice clothes and drown themselves in muddy beer. Some say, they submerge themselves to the level of pigs. I don’t agree. I say, they submerge themselves almost to the level of pigs. I love Germans.

Bongs wear traditional Bong costumes like dhotis and sarees to the feast. Germans wear traditional Byrish costumes like lederhosen and dirndl. Some wear nothing. A fat German wearing nothing is not a pleasant sight. They are quickly arrested. It spoils the image. Oktoberfest is after all a tourist attraction.

Women wear dirndl and the men wear lederhosen. Generally. Nowadays, one can never be sure. Dirndl is a big white billowy petticoat which hides everything one normally wants to see. I don’t like Dirndl. It was made famous by a girl called Heidi who made a movie about it a long time ago. Heidi was a very silly girl.

Some men try to wear Dirndl. They are quickly arrested. It spoils the image. Oktoberfest is after all a tourist attraction.

The lederhosen is a tight leather half pants, which leaves the legs exposed. A fat German in tight lederhosen with hairy legs is an alarming sight. One does not forget it easily.

Some women try to wear lederhosen.

It is a very curious garment. It is so tight it stops the blood circulation, it gives you scratchy bottoms, and it is almost impossible to pee wearing one. It is impossible not to pee after a few beers. You drink a lot of beer at Oktoberfest.

Women anyway want to pee all the time. They have faulty plumbing.

A sexy girl in tight lederhosen with scratchy bottoms, desperately wanting to pee is the most interesting sight on earth. That’s why, very few girls wear lederhosen. Actually, I’ve never actually seen a girl wearing lederhosen. It is only my fantasy going wild. I have a very wild fantasy.

Durga pooja takes place in one large tent in many fields across India. Oktoberfest takes place in many large tents in one field in Munich. The field is called Theresienwiese. Going to Oktoberfest is called “Auf der Wies’n”. Germans love going “Auf der Wies’n”. I love Germans.

The tents are full of many fat Germans, grimly drinking beer and dancing on long thin wooden tables. The sight of many drunk Germans dancing grimly on long thin wooden tables is a very alarming sight. One does not forget it easily. But, I love Germans.

During Durga pooja, one prays to durga, meets friends, talks, and has nice food. During Oktoberfest, one drinks. And drinks. And drinks. Then one pees.

Occasionally, one also eats. They have this huge tubular heart shaped bread called Brez’n. It tastes like nothing on earth. It is made by bakers who drink beer. That is why, they forget to take it out of the oven in time. It tastes like burnt cork. The Germans love it. I love the Germans.

They also eat roast chicken. It is called Brathend’l. Many million chickens return to Durga during Oktoberfest. Durga is very busy during Oktoberfest..

Outside the tents, one gets extra long Oktoberfest bratwurst. It is a meter long sausage in a meter long baguette. It looks very funny when you eat it. It looks like…It looks like…it looks like you are eating a meter long bratwurst. What else? What did you think I was going to say? Your fantasy is running wild.

After eating, one farts.

Tennyson got his inspiration for the charge of the light brigade after visiting Oktoberfest.
“Cannons to the left of them, Cannons to the right of them, volleyed and thundered”

It is very alarming, indeed.

Life has many cycles. Life has many rhythms. The cycle of life-death-birth. The rhythm of thunder and rain, and crickets chirping.

The rhythm of Oktoberfest is: Drink-pee-fart.
The cycle of Oktoberfest is: Drink-pee-fart.

I lie. Actually, it goes much deeper than that. It goes.

Drink-pee-fart.
Drink-pee-fart.
Drink-pee-fart.
….and so on, ad nauseam.

Ad nauseam is Latin for “until you get sick”. This is very appropriate. One gets very sick in Oktoberfest.

The cycle of Oktoberfest stops when you go:
Drink-pee-fart-vomit.

After you vomit, you go home. If you can walk. Otherwise, your friends carry you home. If they can walk. Otherwise the police throw the whole lot in a garbage can. If they are not drunk. It is not nice to spend the night in a German garbage can during Oktoberfest. It is very alarming. One does not forget it easily.

Some Germans don’t stop after vomiting. They go back into the tents again. If they left it in the first place. Some Germans are not very nice. But, I love Germans.

Oktoberfest is a huge tourist event for Germany. It generates money equal to the GDP of a small country.

30 million liters of Beer are drunk at Oktoberfest. It is enough to wash several herds of elephants. Several herds of very happy elephants.

35 Million liters of piss are peed at Oktoberfest. They have very large pissoirs. You can get lost in them.

You may ask, why 30 million liters of Beer and 35 million liters of piss? Where is the extra piss coming from? Good questions. It comes from Apple juice and lemonade. Some crazy, perverted people drink that too. They are quickly arrested. It spoils the image. Oktoberfest is after all a tourist attraction.

4 million cubic meters of methane is farted at every Oktoberfest. That is enough methane to light a small Indian village for a year. It affects global warming. They should have a small Indian Village at Oktoberfest.

Finally, to end:

Viva la Beer!
Viva la Munich!
Viva les Allemand
Viva la France
Why France? Because I want a few marks in my French exam.