In which Tabula gets his Dabba back
Dabba: H
The self-consciously pretty receptionist re-entered the crowded alcove, manoeuvring round the stack of cardboard cartons and pretended to busy herself with the receipt. I looked away, at the screen playing a Hong Kong gangster movie. Someone was being arrested. A young Chinese guy stepped out from the inside room carrying my precious Denon player. It had been two weeks since I'd dropped it off for its increasingly frequent misdemeanor -- that of refusing to recognize all but a select few members of my compact disk collection. DVDs, no problem. CDs -- all but a few select commercial American releases censored. The nerve!
But two weeks of relying on the boombox in the bedroom, the poodle, the laptop, the audio streams on the office machine, the cricket world cup. No comparison. How I'd missed you, life of my rig!
I settled back on the couch with forced unconcern. The technician connected the various wires. Twiddled the knob. The gangster movie disappeared from the screen, replaced by an error message. This was not going well. He reinstituted the startup procedures. And the dignified tones of Debabrata Biswas warmed this aseptic corner of Hong Kong. Eshechhe eshechhe, aa-ha, mor angan eshechhe [1]. I'd left this disc with them because it had never played on this player; I hadn't known that he'd left the disc in. I was pleasantly surprised. I stood up.
Mr. Hong Kong interrupted the song, pressing the remote control to skip a few tracks. Georgeda was not to be suppressed. Ami choncholo hey [2]. Mot juste, maestro. Mr. Hong Kong pressed eject and inserted the other disc I'd left with him. For a few ecstatic seconds, Donald Byrd funked out the joint. The receptionist looked up startled, semireceipted. I smiled at the technician. He hurriedly switched the player off, then checked to see whether I was satisfied. I asked him what the problem had been. He didn't understand my question. His English wasn't so great. Eventually, I learned that we now had a new pick-up.
Whatever it takes.
I wrapped my dabba in the blanket I had lovingly brought for it, and the guy helped me put it into the oversize plastic bag. Signed the receipt and paid the woman. I then carried my nine kilograms of happiness out into the drizzle below and escaped home in the sanctuary of the nearest cab. It sits here now, in its rightful place in front of me. Once more the Bitch is Brewing, the house is rocking.
Day before yesterday the downstairs neighbor came up to complain about the use of a vacuum cleaner before ten in the morning on a Sunday. N00b. Vacuum cleaner? You ain't met my Wharfedales yet, good sir. I hope this Pharaoh's Dance is blasting your little engineer brain into the middle of next week's capacitor.
******
I decided to save the serious part of this post for next time. Party on.
******
[1] She's here, she's here, aa-ha, my beauty is here!
[2] Me's restless, yo!
The self-consciously pretty receptionist re-entered the crowded alcove, manoeuvring round the stack of cardboard cartons and pretended to busy herself with the receipt. I looked away, at the screen playing a Hong Kong gangster movie. Someone was being arrested. A young Chinese guy stepped out from the inside room carrying my precious Denon player. It had been two weeks since I'd dropped it off for its increasingly frequent misdemeanor -- that of refusing to recognize all but a select few members of my compact disk collection. DVDs, no problem. CDs -- all but a few select commercial American releases censored. The nerve!
But two weeks of relying on the boombox in the bedroom, the poodle, the laptop, the audio streams on the office machine, the cricket world cup. No comparison. How I'd missed you, life of my rig!
I settled back on the couch with forced unconcern. The technician connected the various wires. Twiddled the knob. The gangster movie disappeared from the screen, replaced by an error message. This was not going well. He reinstituted the startup procedures. And the dignified tones of Debabrata Biswas warmed this aseptic corner of Hong Kong. Eshechhe eshechhe, aa-ha, mor angan eshechhe [1]. I'd left this disc with them because it had never played on this player; I hadn't known that he'd left the disc in. I was pleasantly surprised. I stood up.
Mr. Hong Kong interrupted the song, pressing the remote control to skip a few tracks. Georgeda was not to be suppressed. Ami choncholo hey [2]. Mot juste, maestro. Mr. Hong Kong pressed eject and inserted the other disc I'd left with him. For a few ecstatic seconds, Donald Byrd funked out the joint. The receptionist looked up startled, semireceipted. I smiled at the technician. He hurriedly switched the player off, then checked to see whether I was satisfied. I asked him what the problem had been. He didn't understand my question. His English wasn't so great. Eventually, I learned that we now had a new pick-up.
Whatever it takes.
I wrapped my dabba in the blanket I had lovingly brought for it, and the guy helped me put it into the oversize plastic bag. Signed the receipt and paid the woman. I then carried my nine kilograms of happiness out into the drizzle below and escaped home in the sanctuary of the nearest cab. It sits here now, in its rightful place in front of me. Once more the Bitch is Brewing, the house is rocking.
Day before yesterday the downstairs neighbor came up to complain about the use of a vacuum cleaner before ten in the morning on a Sunday. N00b. Vacuum cleaner? You ain't met my Wharfedales yet, good sir. I hope this Pharaoh's Dance is blasting your little engineer brain into the middle of next week's capacitor.
******
I decided to save the serious part of this post for next time. Party on.
******
[1] She's here, she's here, aa-ha, my beauty is here!
[2] Me's restless, yo!
posted by Tabula Rasa | 4/17/2007 07:05:00 PM
12 Comments:
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Hehehe. You *have* heard of iPods havent you?
Your neighbor must be so very afraid.
(revealed: poodle = flash memory-based MP3-playing dog :))
raghu:
thank you, but i bet you say that to all the guys.
revealed:
i have. like km said, my poodle -- it's been featured on several posts. think of a fancy white luxury product that follows you wherever you go and has the potential to be your best friend.
km:
i bet he doesn't know what hit him :-D
(this one's hd based.)
nice. love the usage of Dabba.
heh heh:
thanks.
the usage isn't mine. we used it all the time on campus -- i don't know where it came from originally.
And, did everybody else on campus wrap it up in blankets too?
*Settling back on the couch with a forced mirthless look* :-P
ghost:
well, it's nine kilograms. other people might be using handkerchiefs or something. not sure.
*settling even further back* :-D
"Ami choncholo hey" = "Me's restless, yo! " ?
Where were you when I was trying to learn Bengali?
mt:
oh, down by the hood, you know.
sitting on pada-er rock, sipping lembu chaa and dragging on a chotto gold flake while playing carrom, i presume.
But probably not - you sound like a probashi.
heh heh:
lebu cha. but no, i think it certainly wouldn't have come from those parts. my guess is iitd.
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