Time is ticking and soon, I will be saying goodbye to this little town for ever. I have no desire to return. I usually don't get any overwhelming desire to return to a place. The only exception is London. Aarhus has provided me the most precious of things -- time. I have had enough time to not only gaze at sunrises, sunsets and mull over how weeks can pass without a single glimpse of the sun but it has also given me time and energy to wrestle my way inside myself. No, I am not launching into a boring I, Me, Myself monologue, be assured. It has also provided me something else. This blog's all about this 'something else'.

Real life conversations about India, my Indianness (whatever that is) and the growing fascination with all things Indian provided me with much bemusement and hilarity. Everybody it seems has either already visited India, is in the process of going, or really wants to go. A triumph for the Indian tourism campaign if you ask me.

Like my lecturer keeps telling, show not tell. See, I am studying and studying well; I even remember what the lecturer says :)
So, I just present some conversations. I am not making any judgements. What you make of it, is not my business. No, it is. I want to hear what you make of it. :)


Scene I:
Me, groggy. In the common kitchen waiting for kettle to boil for my morning tea.
Dash, my Danish flatmate trying to make conversation.

He: Teach me a swear word in Indian! (half-bemused, half-appraisal glance)
Me: In Indian? What's that?
He: Isn't that the language you speak?
Me: Er.. no. Indian is well, me, not my language. (That sounded incomprehensible even to me.)
He: But, but, you are from India!
Me: Yes, most assuredly I am.
Pregnant accusing silence. And then glum reply.
He: So what do you speak?
Me: There is no language called 'Indian'. I speak a language called Kannada.
He: Canada?
Me: No, Kannada.
(Resigned, Indians-are-crazy look)
He: Teach me then.
Me: Nimmajji tale
He: Nimaaaji teeel
End of attempt at small talk.

Scene II
Second attempt by Dash to make small talk after a few days. This time, I am preparing breakfast, he is eating his.

He: So, you are married eh?
Me: Yes
He: Is your husband rich or poor?
Me: Eh? Neither.
He: (Going into Indians-are-crazy mode again) But I know India has lots of rich and poor people.
Me: Yes, yes. It has lots of people who are neither as well. (I go into I-don't-know-how-to-explain-India mode)
He: So, umm, err.. your marriage was arranged yes?
Me: Actually, I fell in love. (I decide to answer him in single sentences.)
He: Really, you were not forced into marriage then?
Me: (Evil grin) Yes I was.. that's why I have run away and am now in Denmark.
He: (Has stopped eating that miserable brown-black rogbread)
Me: No, just kidding.
(short history lesson about forced marriages ensues.. unnecessary here. Suffice to say, bored Dash enough to change topic.)
He: So how is the weather in your city?
Me: Much like here (at the time of this conversation Aarhus was a pleasant 28 degrees C with lots of sunshine..something like how Bangalore would be in September)
He: So, how come you are so brown?
Me: What has that got to do with weather?
He: If the weather is like here, you should also be white!
Me: (stunned into stupid grin) But it is a matter of genes and race
He: Uh oh.
Second attempt at small talk ends.

Scene III
Me, groggy morning tea routine again. Dash, groggy rogbread routine.
He: Do you listen to music?
Me: Of course
He: Indian music?
Me: Yes, and Pakistani.
He: Can you play the sitar?
Me: I wish!
He: I know Raveee shuunkar plays.
Me: He does.
He: I went to the Indian restaurant yesterday. (smirks) Indian music was playing.. aw-aw-aw... was that Raveee?
Me: (I have had it). No that was not. Dash, Indian music is not just about Ravi Shankar... and what you heard is called 'alaap'.. the beginning of a classical song. (My tea is ready and I realise how inadequate I feel when I have to explain Indian music to somebody from scratch. So I do not attempt to.)
End of final attempt at small talk from both of us.

Scene IV
Me, exhausted and shivering in the cold at an abandoned bus terminal in Copenhagen. Only other waiting passenger, a handsome Hungarian gym instructor who began learning English (or so he told me) two months ago.
Hungarian: So you are from Indeeeaaaa
Me: Yes, (wide smile)
Hungarian: Me want to go India once.
Me: (Wider smile): You shoooullldd
Hungarian: But India so far away and huge, huge yes?
Me: Yes, huge, huge.
Hungarian: Food with lots of kuuuurrriiiii yes?
Me: (Flummoxed) pardon?
Hungarian: Kurriiiii, Kurriiiiii. I eat Kurrriiiii once in Budapest.
Me: Sorry, I cannot get you at all. (The image of a lamb gets firmly implanted on my totally fatigued mind and refuses to budge)
Hungarian: (actually wrings his hand) Oh my Engleeesh! I know Hungarian. But nobody speaks yes? I speak German. But my umm.. clients want Engleeesh. That's why I learn. You know kurrriiiiii.. kurrriiii Indian food?
Me: (Lamb moves, bulb switches on): Oh you mean curry?
Hungarian: (Beautiful smile) Yes!
Me: (Relieved sigh at getting past this kurious hurdle)
Hungarian: Indians have stuuuthis yes?
Me: (oh no) Pardon?
Hungarian: umm....sthuuthis? you know word stuuuthis? many levels of stuuuthis in India yes?
Me (aiyooooo): No, am so sorry.. I just don't know the word.
Hungarian (hurt child look): rich stuuuuthis, poor stuuuthis yes?
Me: status?
Hungarian: Yes yes (child with chocolate look)
Me: (Back to I-don't-know-how-to-explain-India mode). (Short history lecture. Hungarian listens with apparent interest. And then offers me chocolate.)
The chocolate was worth it all, yes?

If I have energy left over, more conversations in the next blog. Adios Amigos. :)