Orange bearded man found dead in Delhi restaurant, Orders Penne and Ginger Ale.
I bought three books today...all of them priced in UK pounds, the symbol for which is and shall remain unknown to me as a keystroke on the particular computing device. I of course did not pay for them in pounds, and was, quite frankly on the verge of not paying for them at all due to the bookstore clerks unspoken refusal to utter a word in any language. She did however blurt out a number which may have been accurate as a collective total price for my three prospective pieces of printed fiction, had we been in London...in 1992. After a quick but staggering bout of polite consternation I reaffirmed my original belief that I was in fact in a rather posh market in Northern India and that I was not 10 years old but in fact 23...which If I believe my soon-to-be-expired driver's license, would make the date somewhere near 2006. That done, I endeavored for not the first time to garner some measure of verbal interaction from the conspiratorial and possibly numerically fixated clerk. "13-95"? She glanced at me and nodded while holding her rather ambivalent gaze directly at my face, which caused the pupils of her eyes to bob up and down in such a way as to cause me to speculate if her brain had engaged in a game of pong between her forehead and cheekbones.
Nostalgic video games and such musings aside I was at a crisis point. If the woman meant for me to pay for these books in English pounds we were both out of luck, If she meant rupees than I had either picked the three titles in her rather well and tastefully stocked shop to be carrying typhoid or the three authors and there works were so abhorrent to her for some undisclosed but not unlikely personal reason that she would do anything to be rid of the things short of just giving them away. My rationality only partially blighted by the usual nonsense of existence this particular afternoon I reasoned that the women meant 1,395 INR. I paid, as a test of my supposition as much as for the books and was pleased to receive the most rare final result of any Indian transaction...a computerized receipt, complete with an accurate, itemized list of purchases, tax and even the name of the shop.
Now, at the end of such an exhaustive and possibly rambling account of an even that took in fact one eighth the time the average literate human may have read that last paragraph, one might question why they of all kind people should be subjected to such literary inefficiency. And one would be right to do so.
The first reason for my diatribe was...my own personal sanity which I have discovered is best preserved by blathering about vapid ness and malarkey, particularly when I am in a country that often but not always uses a different language. This is of course why those who know me at home will see very little difference in my current rate of blathering from that observed in my home bi-lingual nation. The second reason is to draw a comparison. Which will most likely proved to be a furtherance of the first reason but for posterity I claim that it is for the interest of those who like comparisons.
The comparison is thus: The woman in the bookstore of recent mention speaks English, her store caters to others who like her and myself speak English, the prices, as shown above are, for India exorbitant, for the west they are normal but not a bargain by any means. Now in such an area as is thus established one would think that the easiest part of the book buying process would be the transaction, at least in my case, being of means and appropriate linguistic ability. Yet, we see a great conflagration occurred within my mind and also on a social level between myself and the silent witch who sold me books. yet, upon stepping out the market, crossing the road, and raising my arm I engaged a friendly man with an auto rickshaw who not only took my directions accurately but got be back quickly allowed me to set the price of the whole service. This man spoke no English, and I spoke only enough Hindi to give directions, ask if he spoke English and thank him. Clearly either language is irrelevant or expensive bookstores aught to be staffed if not managed and owned by rickshaw drivers.
In further gibbering...I discovered with some interest that the three books which I chose based on my established love of the respective authors' other works, had some strange coinciding elements. None of these had been noticed at the point of purchase. For instance: All three of the books follow a detective charicter yet two of the books are not really crime novels and all of the authors are known to be dead. Except one, who may be dead. I sincerely hope he lives and is writing with his time but frankly I have no real information to go on and so for the purposes of this completely ridiculous set of observations we'll say he's dead as Dillinger. One of the books is actually two books. All of the books are connected to stories in other books, that is to say the characters and locations reappear in other stories by the same and possibly other authors. Two of the authors are English and both are fan's of PG Wodehouse. The third was American and may well have been a fan while a contemporary of that most frivolous of creative geniuses. For each book I have one acquaintance I know to have read it. None of them gave an opinion on any of the books. Two of the books (counting the one that is two as one) are un-distinguished as any one genre, and both of these were written by Brits. The remaining title is so distinct in its genre that one might be safe in claiming that it and it's sister stories created and still define said unsaid genre. It was written by an American who is today mistaken by most people for Mathew Perry's character on Friends. So three books, that are four books, with so many weird connections...if when I’ve read them all, anything transcendental or paranormal or generally Aquarian has occurred as a clear result I'll let you know.
Till then, I suggest that the above body of text is an example of the worst psychological symptoms suffered as a result of Indian food poisoning.
but that's another...more narrative story.
Stoke me a Clipper, I'll be Jack for Christmas
Nostalgic video games and such musings aside I was at a crisis point. If the woman meant for me to pay for these books in English pounds we were both out of luck, If she meant rupees than I had either picked the three titles in her rather well and tastefully stocked shop to be carrying typhoid or the three authors and there works were so abhorrent to her for some undisclosed but not unlikely personal reason that she would do anything to be rid of the things short of just giving them away. My rationality only partially blighted by the usual nonsense of existence this particular afternoon I reasoned that the women meant 1,395 INR. I paid, as a test of my supposition as much as for the books and was pleased to receive the most rare final result of any Indian transaction...a computerized receipt, complete with an accurate, itemized list of purchases, tax and even the name of the shop.
Now, at the end of such an exhaustive and possibly rambling account of an even that took in fact one eighth the time the average literate human may have read that last paragraph, one might question why they of all kind people should be subjected to such literary inefficiency. And one would be right to do so.
The first reason for my diatribe was...my own personal sanity which I have discovered is best preserved by blathering about vapid ness and malarkey, particularly when I am in a country that often but not always uses a different language. This is of course why those who know me at home will see very little difference in my current rate of blathering from that observed in my home bi-lingual nation. The second reason is to draw a comparison. Which will most likely proved to be a furtherance of the first reason but for posterity I claim that it is for the interest of those who like comparisons.
The comparison is thus: The woman in the bookstore of recent mention speaks English, her store caters to others who like her and myself speak English, the prices, as shown above are, for India exorbitant, for the west they are normal but not a bargain by any means. Now in such an area as is thus established one would think that the easiest part of the book buying process would be the transaction, at least in my case, being of means and appropriate linguistic ability. Yet, we see a great conflagration occurred within my mind and also on a social level between myself and the silent witch who sold me books. yet, upon stepping out the market, crossing the road, and raising my arm I engaged a friendly man with an auto rickshaw who not only took my directions accurately but got be back quickly allowed me to set the price of the whole service. This man spoke no English, and I spoke only enough Hindi to give directions, ask if he spoke English and thank him. Clearly either language is irrelevant or expensive bookstores aught to be staffed if not managed and owned by rickshaw drivers.
In further gibbering...I discovered with some interest that the three books which I chose based on my established love of the respective authors' other works, had some strange coinciding elements. None of these had been noticed at the point of purchase. For instance: All three of the books follow a detective charicter yet two of the books are not really crime novels and all of the authors are known to be dead. Except one, who may be dead. I sincerely hope he lives and is writing with his time but frankly I have no real information to go on and so for the purposes of this completely ridiculous set of observations we'll say he's dead as Dillinger. One of the books is actually two books. All of the books are connected to stories in other books, that is to say the characters and locations reappear in other stories by the same and possibly other authors. Two of the authors are English and both are fan's of PG Wodehouse. The third was American and may well have been a fan while a contemporary of that most frivolous of creative geniuses. For each book I have one acquaintance I know to have read it. None of them gave an opinion on any of the books. Two of the books (counting the one that is two as one) are un-distinguished as any one genre, and both of these were written by Brits. The remaining title is so distinct in its genre that one might be safe in claiming that it and it's sister stories created and still define said unsaid genre. It was written by an American who is today mistaken by most people for Mathew Perry's character on Friends. So three books, that are four books, with so many weird connections...if when I’ve read them all, anything transcendental or paranormal or generally Aquarian has occurred as a clear result I'll let you know.
Till then, I suggest that the above body of text is an example of the worst psychological symptoms suffered as a result of Indian food poisoning.
but that's another...more narrative story.
Stoke me a Clipper, I'll be Jack for Christmas
posted by Chris and Nilu at 6:10 AM
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