My Calcutta rant is building up. It hasn’t reached the right viscosity of fungal putridness that is this city. I shall spew forth soon enough but for now my home computer has come to the rescue in my limbo phase here in Calcutta where I shall unfortunately be detained till the 6th of June. If you know me and love me, mail by the cartloads. I am still yours at harakiri_girl@yahoo.com
Meanwhile… a scratchy parchment, printed from a HP deskjet3550, has been found. It contains the warblings of a future-senior-correspondent-to-be when she first joined the Hogwash School of Journalism. Read. Actually don’t.
Sarojini Nagar market, middle lane
Time- 12 o’ clock in the afternoon
I have a typical idiot expression, mouth wide open. A fly buzzed dangerously close. My friend, the more confident specimen stands a few centimetres away surveying the market Nero-like. I’m an absolute novice at shopping. If I like a thing, I go ask the price & peer into my wallet for affirmation. But my friend does things differently. If she likes something she’ll poke me in the ribs (hard) and grin. Then she’ll tame her expression and walk in. She’ll look at two, maybe three things before she turns to look at what caught her eye in the first place. Then she’ll cock her head & purse her lips, looking at it. Turning slightly, she wills me to play my part. So I cock my head & purse my lips and give a non-committal shrug. (Aside: I have been restricted to gestures since My Great Gaffe in Gol Bazaar).
The shopkeeper starts off, almost immediately. “Very good, Madam”; “High quality Madam”; “unique piece, etc., etc., Madam”. And then the vital — “Only 65, Madam”. Our eyes glaze over as the pre-planned heart attacks strike. My friend recovers first to ask him to stop kidding. The guy starts grumbling ”Aaccha, 60 de do”. We both start moving out of the shop - very slowly. Very, very slowly.
”Kitna do ge, madam.”; “30”. The shopkeeper’s has HIS heart attack, right about now. We are still moving out, by the way. “40 de do”. “35, final” we chorus, our faces half turned away. The guy is jumping up & down by now. Finally he stops and with a downcast expression, agrees. No, my friend and I do not give out a warhoop & start our victory dance. We pay the price, walk away until we are at a reasonably safe distance from the shop. Only then do we let ourselves go. We females hate to rub the salt in.
Meanwhile… a scratchy parchment, printed from a HP deskjet3550, has been found. It contains the warblings of a future-senior-correspondent-to-be when she first joined the Hogwash School of Journalism. Read. Actually don’t.
Sarojini Nagar market, middle lane
Time- 12 o’ clock in the afternoon
I have a typical idiot expression, mouth wide open. A fly buzzed dangerously close. My friend, the more confident specimen stands a few centimetres away surveying the market Nero-like. I’m an absolute novice at shopping. If I like a thing, I go ask the price & peer into my wallet for affirmation. But my friend does things differently. If she likes something she’ll poke me in the ribs (hard) and grin. Then she’ll tame her expression and walk in. She’ll look at two, maybe three things before she turns to look at what caught her eye in the first place. Then she’ll cock her head & purse her lips, looking at it. Turning slightly, she wills me to play my part. So I cock my head & purse my lips and give a non-committal shrug. (Aside: I have been restricted to gestures since My Great Gaffe in Gol Bazaar).
The shopkeeper starts off, almost immediately. “Very good, Madam”; “High quality Madam”; “unique piece, etc., etc., Madam”. And then the vital — “Only 65, Madam”. Our eyes glaze over as the pre-planned heart attacks strike. My friend recovers first to ask him to stop kidding. The guy starts grumbling ”Aaccha, 60 de do”. We both start moving out of the shop - very slowly. Very, very slowly.
”Kitna do ge, madam.”; “30”. The shopkeeper’s has HIS heart attack, right about now. We are still moving out, by the way. “40 de do”. “35, final” we chorus, our faces half turned away. The guy is jumping up & down by now. Finally he stops and with a downcast expression, agrees. No, my friend and I do not give out a warhoop & start our victory dance. We pay the price, walk away until we are at a reasonably safe distance from the shop. Only then do we let ourselves go. We females hate to rub the salt in.
