So here we are, Trichy, India. I had a rough time in the bus to NIT, and somehow, I feel that it's going to get more hostile. Nancy is drpping with sweat, and that's washed away all her makeup. She looks like Emma Watson now, yeuch.
Anyhu, we entered the gates together, only to be stopped by a strange khakhi clad man with a huge potbelly and a bigger moustache. He looks at us and asks, "Thambi, which year? Which state? Which hostel?"
I looked at Nancy, alarmed. She nodded assuredly at me and started speaking, "Sir, the year is 2008, we're from California, and we don't live here. We just came to investigate the possible extinction of humankind." She gave him one of her 'thankyou' smiles.
The man did not understand a word. He just stood there and looked at us. More at Nancy than me. I was considering punching the guy in the face and running, when someone behind me spoke.
"Is there a problem?"
It was a tall guy sporting a t-shirt that had weird figures on it and a caption which said "Something, somewhere went terribly wrong". He seemed to be our age.
"Yeah! This guy won't let us in. He doesn't understand what we're saying," I said.
"I'll speak to him," he replied, and turning to the weird man, he said something in the same loud, nasal dialect that we had heard so much ever since we reached here.
"He says ok. Let's go."
"Thanks!" said Nancy.
"You're welcome!" he said, blushing slightly. What is it with Indian men and blond chicks?
"Let's catch an ice cream while we talk, shall we?" he suggested.
"Sure," I said.
So he led us about a kilometre into the wasteland, where a group of shabby shops had sprung up, not unlike an oasis. There was an ice cream place there, and I was amazed at how they got a huge bull to guard it. But then I remembered, hey, these buggers worship them. Probably returning the favour. We walked in and sat down.
"You guys didn't introduce yourselves, I'm Siddharth Mahesh, but my friends call me Mapute, or just Mapu."
We mumbled introductions, but I was curious about his nickname, and I asked him.
"Oh! It's a long story. But it has a nice tribal zing to it, doesn't it? Anyway, let's order."
We walked up to the counter and saw the menu. Very imaginative spelling. They somehow seemed to convey that they were special, not like any other ordinary ice cream place.
So we had our ice creams, and Mapute paid for us, despite my protests.
"Hey," he said, "I'm an NRI! Let me do my job!"
I didn't know if that was National Resources Institute or Negative Refractive Index, but neither seemed to make sense. I didn't enquire.
...to be continued.
