(For those who, for one reason or another, missed the earlier post, I am on a whirlwind tour of Rajasthan. I attended a Sufi or Soofy Music festival in a bustling metropolis named Nagaur. Therefrom I have shifted to Jodhpur and herefrom I catch a plane back to my sweet home where my love lies waiting silently for me. These here are accounts thereof. )
The whole enterprise was in jeopardy from the start because it did not have the blessings of my Queen.
"What is the use of all this soofy geefy?" was the main thrust of her argument. A very difficult one to counter, as you might readily appreciate, because soofy geefy is indeed no use at all. For instance, you can't use it in lieu of your credit card to settle bills at restaurants.
To deflect the direction of the discussions, I tried all my sorry assed jokes.
What do you call soofy music when the singer has Diarrhoea?
Soofy music for horse lovers?
Soofy music for Bill Clinton?
Soofy music for spies?
Soofy music for Micky Mouse?
At this point in the proceedings, Sheela threatened to bean me with her handbag. Wisely desisting any further attempt at polemics, I packed my bag and hoofed it to the train (see Exhibit 1 below - Sad Sack in Train, alias Dukhi Atma)
As is usual in the Indian Railways, weirdos abounded. Our next door neighbour was an elderly gentleman who had, for this PhD thesis, selected the delicate topic "Toilet in three tier AC is better than Toilet in two tier AC"
For those ignorant of the niceties of Indian rail travel, Two Tier AC is more expensive than Three Tier AC by a factor of 33%. Thus, by natural justice, toilets in Two Tier AC should be better that toilets in three tier AC (by a factor of 33%). Which, according to our doctoral candidate, they are not. And his defense was conducted against the cogent-and-coherent- but-lacking-in-vitality ticket collector. All this at 5 a.m when city slickers like me seek repose. I am a non-violent person. Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama are the names constantly on my lips. But at that moment, my hands itched to emulate the Boston Strangler.
Luckily for the toilet expert, I managed to retain my sang froid, a French expression meaning "cool" (don't look at me, I didn't make this up) . That's why in France, if you tell the garcon that you want your eggs froid, you get them in a cold, glue like mass.
And thus, dear reader, presently we reached the great bustling metropolis of Nagaur (see picture below)
P.S. Rajasthani couplet composed specially by royal bard for Chutney
O my beloved baalma, don't join the troops
Your mustache is no good except for straining soups