Hipposaur approves

A friend once said, if you can come home from work, while still clinging on to your sanity and get a good night's sleep, you know you are doing a good job at life.

Another said, at the end of the day (literally) you don't really need much beyond a full belly and a nice place to sleep on for as long as you want.

The Hipposaur likes having such friends.

Put a lid on it

This happens to be one of those posts that have been bugging the Hipposaur (now grown into a fuzzy purple mass) for quite some time. Having lived in a city peppered with convenience stores since the last four years, life could not have been better for our fuzzy friend. That is one of those annoyingly urbane habits that the Hipp has developed of late: browsing through convenience stores; specifically, convenience stores that sell groceries. Nevertheless, the bugger's from Red Bengal ain't he, you might ask, dear reader, why would he do that to himself? Wouldn't he be better off touting a jhola and rushing off to the nearest local produce kirana for his weekly grocery fix?

Truth is, this being a blog would inevitably verge on the confessional, ergo, we ask for your patience.

Truth is, the Hipp is a visual creature, easily excited by bright lights and colourful shelves. The phoren-cutting grocery supermarket therefore becomes his weekly shot of quick-fix-capitalism that helps him trudge through the week in a relative state of functionality. Yes, a shame, but he admits it - the Hipp is a grocery whore, who cannot quite help himself, despite the menacing threat from hawk-eyed employees. And that's where the story gets interesting.

Truth is, clueless employees at any big store freak out the Hipp. Far removed from the neighbourhood kaku selling suspiciously neon-orange labenchus (that is candy for the uninitiated) in south Calcuttan suburbs; the new age convenience store employee is a wholly unexpected force to be reckoned with. Right from the young bunch of ladies caked with way too much foundation who insist on selling a rather hirsute male (the Hipp, that is) skin toners and vegetable protein shampoos, to the obligatory guy at the grocery aisle who will disappear in a cloud of smoke the moment you ask him anything, the Hipposaur has reasons to be afraid. Yet he still stalks the supermarket shelves with a needle and a spoon.

Truth is, supermarket employees are honest folks trying to make ends meet, who share seats while still clutching on to their sweat-stained Hyderabad Central emblazoned caps at the commute, who'll probably strike a decent conversation about current affairs if you make the effort. This is the face of the new urban have-nots, a sizeable pool of unskilled employees at the service sector. However, when they are in the aisle, the Hipposaur is afraid. Right from the eager clerk who would relentlessly spray perfume on strips of paper at the eponymous section, even if you simply want to see the bright bottles (colours are good), to the grinning young man who'll keep nodding to anything you ask him, the supermarket-slash-multi brand store is an esoteric and highly confusing social space. Befuddled? You should be.

Truth is, the Hipposaur does not quite know how to deal with the young lad who will rattle off basenotes and topnotes at the drop of a hat at the perfume section, all the while aware of the fact that the lad in question probably could never afford the decanter of Issey Miyake he's trying so hard to sell. Add to this the fact of the Hipposaur's fuzzy recollections of the abysmal working conditions of employees (damn the stint at the newspaper!), blend this with his general discomfort at uniformed individuals staring him down while making purchases and you have the perfect recipe for social awkwardness.

Truth is, the supermarket system works on the Big Brother ethic, with the clueless employee in the red cap automatically becoming the inevitable front-end punching bag for their well-heeled customers. They are trained to act the way they do, and hang around your neck only because the big man in the suit told them to do so, never mind if its carrots, or Cool Water by Davidoff.

Truth is, the clueless employee in question probably never grew up in a world governed by packaged vegetables and eau de toilette. As the Hipposaur makes his way to the express checkout, a niggling discomfort remains. But hey, someone’s gotta do the dirty job, right? With such capitalist-Zen-sedative explanations abound, troubled souls like the Hipposaur can be at peace, until the next mall visit, that is. After all, he cannot go cold turkey, not after bearing witness to the wonders of packaged carrots and Cool Water by Davidoff. One of these days, he might even burst out of the pro-cap-brahminical closet...

(The author confesses of never having actually used Cool Water by Davidoff. He has, however, pestered employees to give him a whiff of said product, and then deftly pocketed the tester strip thereafter.)

what's up with the Hipp?

From an account narrated in first person from the Hipposaur's snout, scripted by Little Blue Men who were (quite obviously) high on pencil shavings:

LBM: So, Hipp, what's up?

FGFH: Not much of an update from my side, since beyond work, there's little time to do anything else. As you know, the commute from my house to the office takes around 45-50 minutes, so that's around an hour and a half wasted every day. Since travelling on a bus is usually a boring affair, I clamber on to buses which have space for sitting, and then plug in my audio device (which looks like a squarish testicle). Being out of the television loop, I download what seems to me as 'new' music from the Internet, which is availed from the Computer device they let me use (bless them!).

Now the reason this reply comes after a delay is the fact that the keyboard repulses me these days, considering I spend a hefty chunk of my day before it. So apologies. In other news, I have been trying to revive the cooking habit, and whipped up a mean pork vindaloo last weekend.

Anyway, back to the bus trip: I might have told you that I had started reading all the accumulated stuff on my shelf. The latest discovery being a Canadian author called Robertson Davies. Do try and read up some of his works if you can, very dense texts filled with allusions to antiquity - as some one aptly descibed "a real pleasure to flip though".

Stern looking fella, is he not?

At the end of the proverbial day, I've slowly realised that I'm growing old - not a kindly thought, considering I'm gonna be 26 (in human terms, that is), which leaves the road to dreaded 30 in just another four odd years. Its not the imaginary post-modern dread of the number (as seen from many episodes of Friends, a very enjoyable past time, I must admit); but rather a disturbing realisation that I'm not as young as I wished I was - My father is around 63, while mom is close - I have responsibilities that I would have been only too happy to not bear. Though I would not be required to send money home regularly for the time being, I would be expected to create a bank of savings, investments and think of a 'future'. Added to that is the growing sense of the sheer worthlessness of academia in the real world of buses and sweat and chaos. I see these young kids out of college get into high paying jobs and it strikes me that whatever pretensions of knowledge I might have had during MA, be it theories, or Art or music - its worthless in a system driven entirely on the basis of career-related ambitions.

Post Graduation is so over rated.

Maybe its too late for realising what was pretty much evident, but it still strikes me - Why would the guy on street care about culture when his sole preoccupation is to feed himself and ensure his kids go to school. Don't get me wrong - the everyman I refer to is not only the typical struggling work assistant; he is the guy driving the new Honda, the guy beating up his wife in a slum and the old chap worried about his daughter's marriage. The average Indian gives a shit about the pursuit of humanities - the newspapers don't give a shit about Humanities, so long as you can string a sentence in English, and more importantly, get there in time and ask the right questions.

So are we airheads with no practical use in a social order driven on money and the survival instinct? What has academia to offer to better our lives? I mean, look at it this way - I stayed in a subsidised hostel room, which cost me 90 Rupees a month, including water and electricity - being funded out of grants that came out of taxpayer's pockets, as with any public University. What has that made us? Jobseekers in content writing jobs and newspapers? College teachers doing the same thing over and over again, teaching another batch of people about Blake and Shakespeare, but to what end?

I know we folks from the Liberal Arts like to think that the world has wronged us (have mercy!), since its so materially driven. But then again, think: what if the joke's on us? Considering how many people are perfectly happy being in a daily grind of work - party on weekends - work again routine, I seriously doubt any iota of intelligence I might have deluded myself into believing I might have possessed.

End of rant. As you were.

LBM: Thanks for the update, we are sure our readers will be greatly amused.

FGFH: Anytime

Big Hunt

You never know what a bit of impulsive hunting around might turn up. And by hunting, ladies and gents, we mean rummaging through tons of junk in search of vintage treasures. Confused? We are talking about sniffing around for old…fountain pens. Ever since the proverbial bug bit the impressionable ol’ Hipposaur, he was, as they say, never quite the same.

The Hipposaur suggests you follow the pink splotches on the map to score good deals. Click to enlarge. Image courtesy Google Maps

So one rather mundane Sunday morning (by morning we imply post 11:27 am) the Hipposaur boards a big blue bus down to Old City. Now the Old City in Hyderabad is one of those rare places that you will find a bi-weekly “chor-bazaar”, as its known here, a flea market, if you will. The market spans the area known as pathergatti till the approach to the Charminar and consists of hawkers setting up shop in makeshift plastic sheets.
What can you expect to find here? Well, ask and you shall be overwhelmed. From broken pieces of cassette tapes, wafer biscuits, telephone sets, bicycle wheels, heavy machinery to vintage collectibles, you’ll find it all here at the Sunday market. Need a charger for your cell phone for 20 bucks? Step right in. Have a fetish for collecting empty perfume bottles? This is the place to be. However, as the word goes, what you see is exactly what you get – no testing, no guarantees. Perchance you prefer the finer things in life, like shards of printed circuit boards, or keyboards without keys, the Sunday market fits the bill perfectly. But once in a while, with enough patience and a few hours at your disposal – you might just discover some authentic drool-worthy objects of desire. The Hipposaur, now having assumed the role of crazed fountain pen collector, at this point decides to jump in.

We spot him rummaging through what looks like bicycle bells and spectacle frames and lo and behold! A clean Parker 45 fountain pen – and the bloody thing works too! For 90 Rupees, he pockets the pen and strides on towards the swelling crowd. Towards Machli Kaman, the north gate of Charminar crossing, he encounters a bunch of shops under the building portico on the left. Yes, they stock pens. Yes the Hipposaur has no self restraint. Ergo, after rummaging around for some 50 minutes, he walks away with a Parker 21 with a broken filler and bent nib (Rs 100), a slightly brassed but smooth-as-hell Sheaffer Triumph Imperial (Rs 250) and (breathe in breathe out) a vintage Sailor pen with a cool 14 carat gold flexible nib (Rs 100…what?!).





And now, kids, for a bit of history. In 1911, a Japanese gentleman, by the name of Kyugoro Sakata was introduced to the fountain pen, as demonstrated by a British sailor who was passing by at that time. Now our man was so impressed by the design and function that he decided to start making such instruments in Japan, using local resources. Till date, the factory of the The Sailor Pen Company at Hiroshima still makes fine writing instruments that have acquired somewhat of a status overhaul in recent times. Now that you are wiser, relax and check out the picture of the Hipposaur’s “Sunday haul” (term courtesy Mr. Vinod Ekbote)



A pretty neat deal, eh? And come free with a moral lesson – patience not only pays, but unloads your rather impoverished wallet in no time.

I see colours...

The Hipposaur was bored. Plus there were some readers who were sending the obligatory death treat. Ergo, New colours(TM) are up, ladies and gentlemans. Enjoi!

Pen ramblings: The Calcutta hunt

Having grown up in the old colonial city of Calcutta (now spelled Kolkata) and having used FPs through school, it was rather sad that the FP bug had not bitten the Hipposaur earlier. Now when work has taken him a thousand miles away to Hyderabad, he claims his last visit back home was significant, since this time he went back as a 'pen nut'.

On his part, he had popped in for a 5-day visit, and went to the old academic section of the city, College Street in search of fountain pens. Now College Street is one of the few places in Kolkata that you find the old dilapidated Coffee House, one of the remnants of a bygone era, where waiters serve you steaming coffee and quaint Anglo-Indian fare like Baked fish and Afghani cutlets, and they take their own sweet time while at it.

Walk down the roads and you'll find shops lining the streets selling old books. Tucked away in a corner is a teeny foot-wide hole in the wall operation, quite grandly titled "College Pen Forum" Primarily selling ball points, students' stationary and assorted Parker Vectors. As he casually inquired about FPs, a set of pens on the glass case caught the Hipposaur's attention. Lo and behold! A Pilot Non Self Filling FP, in Medium point. The pen was gorgeously smooth, with a black barrel and GP trim. Ergo, he picks it up for Rs 350 (9 US Dollars approx)

A furlong away was a no-name roadside set-up selling ballpoint pens. These roadside stalls are manned by what is known in popular parlance as hawkers. Usually temporary structures, these stalls are often would up and packed away at night. Between the sheets of plastic were a bunch of boxes, (women's stockings boxes, oddly enough) The owner, Sujit Biswas carefully dusted a few boxes and came up with a bunch of Sheaffer Imperials, School pens and other 'low end' FPs. Interesting.

The last stop was at Esplanade, the veritable heart of the city, which sits close to the Hogg Market. The Hogg Market is a lovely red building housing a bustling market complex, established in 1874, inspired by European architecture. Here you can find the oldest Jewish bakery in town, Nahoum's, as well as old shops that date back a hundred years or more. In the maze of shops there lies the old Fountain Pen Hospital, now re-christened to a rather uninspiring "The Imagine". The shop had little else than a few Chinese pens on display, but they still do repairs, which is a good thing.

Further down Esplanade, he came across a dilapidated building at 9, Chowringhee Road. A flaky enamelled yellow signboard showed the way to The Central Pen Service Pen Hospital. That's where the Hipposaur found himself in a tight spot. Zilch on cash and drool worthy pens on display! Under the dusty glass cover were trays upon trays of old Sheaffers, Parker 45s, 61s, Pelikans. He even saw some wonderful Black Chased Hard Rubber Mabie Todd Swans! Anyway, with a heavy heart he had to go. The owner told him that he could get the Hipposaur his long-coveted Parker 51 at a reasonable price in a few months' time.

Moral of the story: It only shows that one needs to only look in the right places, if only for a little enlightenment.

POST SCRIPT: The reason I rambled on till this point about the latest adventure of the Hipposaur is the fact that the Hipposaur is very persistent in sharing his experiences. To cut a long story short, I felt that it is only fair that I share it on the web, the Hipposaur was quoted as saying, while busily chewing on some glop. Anyway, next time you go visiting Kolkata, do check these places out.

The contact numbers are as follows, in case any one is interested:
College Pen Forum, 54/9 College Street. Phone +91 9831940073
Biswas Pen Stall, near the aforementioned, Phone +91 9836168184
Central Pen Service Pen Hospital, 8 Chowringhee Road, 091-033-22288374

The great equaliser, not quite

The Hipposaur, slow thinking creature that he is, has come to the conclusion that media events are indeed a way of ensuring social equality. Where else would you, dear reader, come across ragged video cameramen, who, rather lecherously zoom (both in and out) on young socialites in designer LBDs in full DV? Where else would you find the elite brigade as well as unsuspecting journalists scampering for a peg of Scotch at the makeshift bar? The icing on the cake is the upstart model, who so desperately wants to show off the label on his jacket that he carries it in his hand. Tsk tsk.
Of course, being in the media has its perks. You are allowed to, for once, smile and chat (with resounding familiarity) with the shiny happy people, and the film stars as well! Good news is: they talk back to, and smile, of course! Both know their parts in the game, and both parties play it up to the hilt. Some people (behind the glass wall, on the streets) only get to take a peek. But we cannot accommodate everybody here now, can we?
That’s where the irony hits the Hipposaur in the head. The people inside are probably not even remotely concerned with the films made by the regional film star; whereas the guys outside are crazy about him. So he takes another swig and picks up the press release, another event to catch in 30 minutes, after all. He loves the notion of India Shining.