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24-Mar-2005

March 24th, 2005

15 th March 2005

 

This morning, I began to look out of my house window. It’s a great space. The window is vital for my sanity. I enjoy watching how people walk, what kinds of people walk the path, how they walk at the edges, in the center and in various horizontal, vertical and diagonal ways.

This morning, there are some pigeons assembled at the square. Two white kids come running from somewhere and have fun with the pigeons. I conclude that kids and pigeons share a universal relationship in an open space (going back to my observations at the Marine Drive / Nariman Point promenade and also Gateway of India).

 

I am getting ready for an appointment with Patrice. He is going to brief me on the conference and the notion of “creative cities” prevailing in Europe and the UK.

 

In the Supermarket

 

I needed to buy the tram strip-card which works out cheap if I have to frequently travel in the tram.

The cost of a single tram ticket is one euro sixty cents.

The cost of a strip-card is six euros and fifty cents for seven and a half trips.

Seven and a half trips could be converted to fifteen trips as well if I travel in one zone and return back in two hours.

I enter the supermarket.

There is a fat, grumpy woman at the counter.

I ask her for a strip-card and she mumbles something.

I angrily ask her if she understands English.

She responds even more angrily “Yes, there!”

She directs me to the machine which I need to operate to get the strip-card.

I try to follow the instructions.

I fold a ten euro note in Indian style and try to push it into the machine.

Patrice shouts, “Oh no, oh no! What are you doing girl?”

He takes the note from my hand.

He takes charge of the machine and its operations.

To get strip-card, we need to punch number 46 in the machine.

Patrice starts to punch.

Number 4 don’t work.

He tries number 4 again.

Number 4 don’t work.

“I hate machines,” he mutters under his breath.

He is agitated.

He pushes number 5 instead of 4.

Out comes a pack of 12 condoms priced at five euros eighty cents.

I am almost to tears with the thought of having to buy condoms worth four hundred rupees.

“Oh my god! Look at these machines. Now you can be happy with 12 condoms,” screams Patrice.

He takes the packet from my hand and rushes to the counter.

He starts shouting at the woman in a dramatic manner.

Fat, grumpy old woman gives back the amount which I have paid for the condoms.

She rushes and comes to the machine.

She snatches some money angrily from my hands.

She works the machine.

She punches number 46 in the machine.

Out comes the strip-card.

She stares at me, as if saying, “That’s how easy it can be!”

Patrice paces up and down outside the supermarket.

“I hate machines, I hate machines!” he announces again.

xanga

  1. March 26th, 2005 at 03:36 | #1

    Oh God, that could have happened to a Frenchman, no machines here to sell you such diverse stuff, but even here the ticket machines are complicated enough….