Spotted dog


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Brief encounter

Luca and Jean Pierre were seated bare chested on a rock, basking, sipping beer from the bottle. Bala saw them.  He rolled a joint quickly & started walking in their direction.  As he approached them, he lit the joint. The scent of hashish mixed with the marine sea-smell briefly soothed his nose before disappearing in the breeze. Bala was looking towards the sea, not the firangies, deliberately, because he wanted them to smell his joint but not him looking at them. He wanted a conversation with them. He wasn't a drug peddler. Bala was curious about white people like his million other countrymen.  He blew a large cloud of smoke and hoped the scented cloud would target the European noses. It did. Luca and Jean Pierre suddenly acted like two Salukis in the sands of the Sahara. They sat up and sniffed at the air, their necks straining. Bala, without looking at them saw, his peripheral vision informed him that his scent-cloud had achieved its objective. He blew another....
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Simon smiles and bididiré

A Mangalorean ran the canteen at the IPHB ( Institute of Psychiatry and Human Behavior) or simply, the mental hospital. He was a puny little man with a broad smile. The sides of his eyes had crinkled skin owing to his habit of compulsive smiling. He was also particulary generous to us, friends from the college of Art. Probably we arties were slightly more relatable, there was less formality to tackle,  behavior became easier. Simon was his name and I liked the tea he made. It was very consistent and it smelled of Jasmine. He got tea from SLanka.  He would serve lunches there also. Although not regular we ate there sometimes. We paid Simon as and when we could. He  did not ask or not let us drink tea and snacks. I guess we were more reliable among the younger folk.  But it is not Simon or the Jasmine tea this one is about. This is about an intern, a young woman in her early thirties, an inmate in the mental hospital.  In Simon's canteen the windows opened directl...
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Tongueage

If we expose ourself to any language we learn it. An illiterate beggar on the road is more likely to surprise us with a turn of phrase which a scholar may not. It is the same reason why an ordinary German may know fluent German than a foreign scholar of the same language. It is because language thrives on the open streets, not in closed biblioteques.  Why we accept the elitist opinions on the beauty of language is beyond me. A workable grammar, proper syntax & a reasonable vocabulary are the survival kit of any language. What gives language its vitality is its easy use with the purpose of carrying a thought across and not ornamental doodah! It is not what the 'Shastrys' of language claim and whose advise is taken by the Goverments in their official documents, circulars, etc. It is not a living language but a pile of dead bodies of words, put together to sound officious only to be, more likely, misunderstood. On Indian railway platforms you read notices with words like ...
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