Olypub
I am talking to Max about the similarity between
Paris and Calcutta when he starts rolling a joint. He has carefully stashed
away some for the evening. Our taxi ambles away easily when the driver sniffs
the dope and looks back, I look at Max who is coolly going about his job,
mixing tobacco and grass in the right proportion, stoking the joint so that it
holds and licking the rolling paper finally. French (Europeans as I get to
learn later) are really fond of tobacco; Max says his biggest discovery of
India is…well…cheap cigarettes…
Driving through the by lanes of Calcutta at
night, dead communists lying at crossroads with dead imperialists. A Mr. AJC
Bose running parallel to one Mr. Elgin (howdy gentlemen, bhadralok) roads are almost deserted and not all of them lead to
the Park street, but our taxi that night
does lead to that hallowed street, to the most classfree place in the entire
city, where there’s a drink for all: Olypub, where the maître d' will
‘accidentally’ spill over extra booze from the jigger into your glass.
The taxi stops, Max and I enter Oly with great
expectations, much lesser cash and quite a few stares. Max tells me again he’s
of sick of being stared at in Calcutta, I wonder whether I will be stared at if
I am in Paris, meanwhile I am looking for a seat and true to the place’s
reputation there’s none, bearded communists are drinking with the same élan as
a group of college going kids, they are all here to drink, a great leveler like
death. A virtual toast from my side to the sincere buggers…cheers…
Max approaches the college gang for a light and
is obliged by a nymph (sorry for the lack of a more polite word, but to be honest
she will behave like a nymph as the night proceeds). Max is pretty cool at
this, striking casual conversations at ease “ you have a light on you” or just
his European good looks smile with
strangers, pretty effective, the gang adjusts us at their table ( all smokers…)
We order
drinks as the kids rattle off in Bengali, I can speak broken Bengali so
I try to catch words and interpret…..bhalo…khabo…etc
etc….but finally give up and order for another vodka for myself. The nymph
asks me if I’ve heard about Parikrama who are performing at Someplace else at
the park hotel, next door. I nod in the affirmative, Parikrama: arguably the
bestest rock band in India, apparently
they play Floyd better than Floyd themselves (ever since Gilmour and Waters
parted ways) “So why the hell are we here” asks Max, by this time high on a joint and down a peg,
I give him a stern look since I don’t want to declare in front of a bunch of
college kids that we don’t have cash on us, he smiles back the French fool.
Liquor at The Park Hotel will burn holes into his pocket so deep he’ll be able
to scratch his knees.
There is an ugly looking Bengali chick among the
kids who’s staring at me. Ugly women are my forte, easier to get and easier to
dump. No (belch) strings (belch followed by another belch) attached. I already
know I will eventually detest her, her body, her feelings for me. In fact I detest everything about her already
except her body, the lust checks my disgust, lust for the bust, keeps away the
disgust (my retort to an apple a day keeps the doctor away).
In no time we are four down ( four and a quarter
thanks to the deary waiter), and life is much better. Max and nymph are sharing
a joint, (not so) ugly chick has placed her arm next to mine, so the intentions
are clear. Gulp Gulp. Five down.
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