After I don't know how long (too long), a few of us went to a bar to listen to a live band the other night. Two-thirds of our group was 25+ years younger than me; at least half the band was clearly ten years older than me. So I had an idea what sorts of songs we were going to hear, and sure enough, we did hear them. I also had the idea that boredom would run riot among the whipper-snappers. But to my surprise, that wasn't at all what happened. The whipper-snappers thoroughly enjoyed the music, applauding lustily and getting up several times to bow in homage to the lead guitarist. He deserved it too, plucking out suave solos with a coolness and twang that would have done Duane Eddy himself proud.
So we heard such classics as Tequila Sunrise (Eagles), Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Queen), Lay Down Sally and Layla (Eric Clapton), Bad Moon Rising (CCR), It's Still Rock and Roll To Me (Billy Joel), Walk of Life and Sultans of Swing (Dire Straits). And they did a rousing Mrs Robinson (Simon and Garfunkel), a warm tribute to the lovely Anne Bancroft, passed on last week.
Here's to you, Mrs Robinson. Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
Got home at I-don't-know-what am. You'd think I'd be humming one of the tunes we heard at the bar. No, I'm inexplicably humming that terrific old Hindi film song: "Gori gori, banki chori, kabhi meri galli aaya karo."
Damn, it's on my mind again!
Things read on a recent trip to a small hill-station.
- On the dinner menu one evening in our hotel, these three dishes (names reproduced here verbatim): Macroni Cacelinga; Mix Veg in CCHEZWAN SOUCE (yes, capitals); Frui Jelly Caustered.
I have no clue what "Cacelinga" is. And I don't know about you, but I really prefer my Frui Jelly un-caustered.
- Notice in train: "Do not lean out of running emu as it is dangerous and can be fatal."
Ah, those emus! Never can trust them. Must be bitter from being flightless and therefore needing to run. Next time, try an ostrich. It'll allow you to lean out, at any rate.
- Engraved on a bench at a popular viewpoint: "Last Memory of My Father Deepak Restaurant."
My condolences. And how's Mrs Restaurant?
After lunch at our hotel one day, I wander into the men's room to wash up. Come back, then a few minutes later I take my son in there to wash up as well. This time, I open the door and nearly fall back. There's a large, formidable woman at the sink. She gives us both a look stern and disapproving enough to set our insides churning. Then she steps disapprovingly past us, past the urinals, and out.
In the hill station, horses and their minders hang around outside the hotels, waiting for custom. One morning, pottering about at our hotel gate, I notice idly that three of the four horses present have ears that are gently curved. My six-year-old son has recently informed me that this is the mark of a breed indigenous to India, the magnificent "Marwari" horse.
So I decide to flaunt this bit of knowledge, and ask the young man sitting on one of them: "These ones with the curved ears are called Marwaris, right?" Enthusiastically, he replies: "Yes! Also Kathiawaris." Then I point to the fourth horse, a smaller, stockier beast. "What about that one," I ask, "what's it called?"
Young man shoots me a puzzled look, then says: "Yogesh."