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.
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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
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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

Dialogue d’amour

- Je t’aime !

- Comment ?

- J’ai dit « je t’aime »

- Alors ? C’est vrai ? Regarde le ciel….c’est bleu.

- Je m’en fous, le couleur de ciel. Je veux dire, je t’aime.

- Mais pourquoi ?

- Pourquoi je t'aime?

- Pourquoi le ciel est bleu.

- Merde !!

- Tu pense que c’est à cause de ça?

- Quoi??

- Le ciel…c’est bleu à cause de ta merde?

- Enfer !!!

- C’est bleu à cause de l’enfer ? Merde où enfer….décide-toi.

- Je te déteste !

- C’est intéressant…mais tu as déjà dit que tu m’aimes…

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-3: Laidback

I used to think we Bangaloreans were pretty laid back. In fact, I would have thought that if one laid back any further, the spine would break- i.e. it does not get laider back than this. But I was wrong.
Three months into Chennai, I realized that it IS possible. Chennaites are even more laid back than Bangaloreans, and their spines are intact. Visually, at least. I can’t say for sure, as I never got around to getting a Chennaite to take of his sweaty vest and probing his vertebrae. Not the most pleasant of tasks, and understandably one procrastinates. Of course I could have taken the more pleasant option of asking a female Chennaite to undo her pallu and let me examine her backbone, but then her husband (or brother) would have fractured mine.

So without absolute scientific proof, based on just the observed visual evidence, I can state this: the Chennaite gets into office around the time we Bangaloreans have already finished half the days work, and his lumbar does not seem to fuse with his dorsal.

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?

Thoughts on Chennai-1: Roads

A few months ago, I moved to Chennai from Bangalore. This month, I moved hurriedly back. But my short stay in that great city led to deep introspection about what can virtually be called a sister city of Bangalore – I mean, it’s just a short bike-ride away. But although so close physically, the cities are so different. In this series of posts I will examine the differences between these two great South Indian cities.

The first thing that hits a visitor from Bangalore to this city of sun, sea and sand is: ROADS.

These chaps don’t know to make roads. The Chennai concept of road is this flat smooth thing with tar on it. On both sides of it, they have this thing called ‘footpath’- a flat unbroken path with nice neat slabs of stone for people to walk on. Now get this, the weirdest part: they act as though roads are where the cars drive and footpaths are exclusively for people.

How can these people be so Naïve ?

Where are the potholes? Where are the half-meter-high speedbreakers with razor edges which scrape the underbelly of low-slung cars? Where is the mud? The cobbles? The gaping holes in the footpath for people to fall into and break their legs? Above all, where, oh where is the friendly intermingling of cars and pedestrians in the middle of the road, sprawling over on to the notational footpaths, where visible?

In short, where is the fun? Where are the possibilities of spiritual instruction?

These chaps seem to think a road is a soulless means of getting from point A to B. Don’t these Chennaites have a sense of adventure? They ought to visit us dudes in Bangalore. Fun and games night and day on the streets. Of course, people get killed and maimed. But what of it? It strengthens you spiritually.

We Bangloreans are a spiritual, fun-loving people.

Thoughts on Artificial Sweeteners

Do you put artificial sweeteners in your tea? Or coffee? You do?!? Shame on you!
Don’t you know artificial sweeteners are responsible for the hole in the ozone layer? The selfsame hole that is getting us all into a holy mess- what with Global Warming and all that muck. Not that that is such a bad thing. Think Free Sauna. Of course, here in India we have free sauna all the year around. But think of those chaps in the northern climes.

So what do they put in artificial sweeteners, and why does it cause a hole in the ionosphere?

This requires deep scientific analysis and knowledge of advanced chemistry and physics, which I know you don’t have. Otherwise you wouldn’t be wasting your time reading this blog. You would be out there saving the world from Global Warming. Or maybe you’re just a pathological procrastinator.

Anyway, I’ll put it in terms intelligible to the meanest pea-brain:

When you eat sugar, you fart Methane. Methane is a greenhouse gas. It heats the atmosphere. So those rich farts in the west don’t have to burn oil to heat their saunas. This reduces Global Warming.

When you eat artificial sweeteners, you fart…I dunno. Variegated, diverse stuff, but not Methane. So the atmosphere doesn’t get heated up and those rich dolts in the West have to burn oil for their saunas. This causes Global Warming.

When the air heats up, it rises. It spills out through this hole in the ozone layer. This cause friction. Hole gets bigger. The hot air falls back. This increases Global Warming.

I hope it is clearer now.

Thoughts on a Chair

Chairs. Chairs make me sick. Chairs are a conspiracy. A conspiracy by the bums of this world to elevate themselves. Now why would two hemispherical stubs of meat want to elevate themselves? Don’t they know their place in life? I call it the Deepak Chopra complex: Everyone wants to be thought of as a rare rarified soul. Do bums have soul? Possibly. Ms Ashwarya Rai’s certainly seem to.

Now I want to clarify that I’m not particularly prejudiced against bums. Especially the ones attached to Ms Rai. If they wish to get elevated, all strength to them, I say.

But we were talking about chairs, not bums. Where on earth did bums get into this discussion? So what are chairs? They can broadly be defined as a framework of some kind of rigid material like wood, steel or aluminum, specifically designed to elevate the human posterior. Oh yes…that is where we got distracted by the bum motif. Let us hurriedly push on.

OK, so what is rigid? Rigid is what happens to the male you-know-what when brought into contact with Viagra. What is a framework? We need to break this up. Frame is when you are accused of doing something you claim you did not. Work is …well, work. What else? Something we all do when we’d much rather be sleeping or playing the guitar. The human posterior, aka bum, we have already defined as a particularly attractive part of Ms Rai’s corpus, when viewed from behind.

So we can summarize the chair as follows:

It is when you are accused of doing something you’d much rather not be doing esp. just after you’ve popped a Viagra and had a good look at a photograph of Ms Rai taken from behind.

Thoughts on Monkeys

Today we turn our thoughts to another burning issue of the day: Monkeys.

India and Australia were recently convulsed to their respective foundations by the news that cricketer Harbajan Singh allegedly called Andrew Symond ‘Monkey’ at the Indo-Australia Cricket match in Sydney. Since one in every 6 human on this planet is an Indian, and one in every 200 is an Australian, we can safely say that the world was shaken to its foundation by this news.

Three questions: What is ‘News’? What is ‘Allegedly’? What is ‘Monkey’?

‘News’ is one plump fellow in thick, oily slicked-down hair gibbering unintelligibly on NDTV- usually joined by another thin bony fellow doing the same. But this is a topic we will examine in more detail another day.

‘Allegedly’ is one of those words used by journalists, lawyers and suchlike to call anyone anything they want and get away with it.

‘Monkey’ is general term applied to any simian primate, from whom we Homo sapiens have allegedly evolved. What is the implication of calling a member of the species Homo sapiens ‘Monkey’? Well, essentially you are alleging that the said member is unevolved.

Question: what is evolution? Evolution is the process of graduating from walking and eating fruit and nuts, to driving around in an internal combustion engine and eating burgers at MacDonald, both of which allegedly lead to coronary heart disease.

So essentially what we are saying is that the world was shaken to its foundation because one plump fellow on NDTV in thick black slicked-down hair gibbered excitedly using a word used by journalists to call anyone anything and get away with it that one Homo sapiens told another that he (the other Homo sapiens) was not leading a lifestyle conducive to coronary heart disease.

Question: If this is sufficient to rock the foundation of the world, does it lead to some nervous speculation about the solidity of the world’s foundation?

Yes it does. Please remember, the world does NOT, in fact, have a foundation. The world is actually a mud ball whizzing in tight circles around another ball made up of, as far as our best scientist can tell, gas.

Which is another worrying thought.