A hilarious and sometimes heart-rending diary/biography of an American engineer's first experience working in India. Classic motorcycles? Engineering? Biodiesel? This true story has it all. -
Excerpt: Delhi, India, 21 Feb 2006
"..............The Metro is the ultra-modern (overhead) subway system that has just come online here in Delhi. It is air conditioned, fast and cheap. Once the masses start using it, it'll be worn out in no time, like most of our own big-city subways. Right now though, it's a new thing. The way it works is like this; you walk up to the ticket (or token, actually) window, ask for a fare to, say, Rajiv Chowk, they tell you how much, you pay, then they hand you a token that is electronically keyed for that destination. The way it works for tourists is; you walk up to the ticket window, ask for a fare to Rajiv Chowk, and then they say, "Rajiv Chowk"?, with an inquiring look on their face. You repeat, "Rajiv Chowk" clearly and precisely, the way they just said it, to which they again give a puzzled look as if you just said, "My underwear is made of cake." This continues for as many times as you'd care to pronounce and hear Rajiv Chowk repeated by them in perfect Hindi until you find yourself yelling something completely unintelligible (both to you and them) in total frustration. This is their cue to say, "Ahhh..., Rajiv Chowk. Yes." "Nine rupees." Not that I would actually do that kind of thing, myself, constantly in remembrance of times spent in Mexico and not expecting them to speak my language, but having to scratch my way through Spanish to be able to communicate. I've just seen this very thing happen more than once here, waiting in line behind a frustrated tourist to get a token myself, although the exact wording they'd use cannot be accurately recalled at this time. My own tactic at the Metro token window is to just go right to the worst pronunciation of "Shadipur" that is humanly possible and stare at them like I just said, "my underwear is made of cake," with a reassuring grin that tells them "hey, I have all day to dick off, how 'bout you?"
More "about:" Some too, will find a method in the madness of the author's self-centered behavior and the penning of such for the world to wade through. That there are some jewels to be found, buried in the muck masking the outer garb of sexual depravity or worse, dereliction of duty and work that man must perform all his days, at least that, according to all the manuscripts. Some will indeed find a pearl of limited price, offered there by the author attempting to paint a warning (and even encouragement) to others who chose a similar path, or in merely conveying a hard lesson painted in such a way that will perhaps take the reader down a gentler and less painful road to their own re-awakening to who they truly are (i.e.; life.)
If to no other end, it is infinitely more entertaining to read about and see others, even narcissistic writers, make mistakes, suffer their falls and bruises, than it is to experience the same ourselves. Lastly, since Tom was an engineer and still is one at heart, his sentences are not worthy of Hemingway comparisons, but more to that of a textbook on strength of materials, predominantly active voice style writing. Understandable to those of the same left-brain predominance, perhaps not so much to those of right-brain slant.
*Video "teaser" on Amazon's Tom Judd authors page.
Excerpt: Delhi, India, 21 Feb 2006
"..............The Metro is the ultra-modern (overhead) subway system that has just come online here in Delhi. It is air conditioned, fast and cheap. Once the masses start using it, it'll be worn out in no time, like most of our own big-city subways. Right now though, it's a new thing. The way it works is like this; you walk up to the ticket (or token, actually) window, ask for a fare to, say, Rajiv Chowk, they tell you how much, you pay, then they hand you a token that is electronically keyed for that destination. The way it works for tourists is; you walk up to the ticket window, ask for a fare to Rajiv Chowk, and then they say, "Rajiv Chowk"?, with an inquiring look on their face. You repeat, "Rajiv Chowk" clearly and precisely, the way they just said it, to which they again give a puzzled look as if you just said, "My underwear is made of cake." This continues for as many times as you'd care to pronounce and hear Rajiv Chowk repeated by them in perfect Hindi until you find yourself yelling something completely unintelligible (both to you and them) in total frustration. This is their cue to say, "Ahhh..., Rajiv Chowk. Yes." "Nine rupees." Not that I would actually do that kind of thing, myself, constantly in remembrance of times spent in Mexico and not expecting them to speak my language, but having to scratch my way through Spanish to be able to communicate. I've just seen this very thing happen more than once here, waiting in line behind a frustrated tourist to get a token myself, although the exact wording they'd use cannot be accurately recalled at this time. My own tactic at the Metro token window is to just go right to the worst pronunciation of "Shadipur" that is humanly possible and stare at them like I just said, "my underwear is made of cake," with a reassuring grin that tells them "hey, I have all day to dick off, how 'bout you?"
More "about:" Some too, will find a method in the madness of the author's self-centered behavior and the penning of such for the world to wade through. That there are some jewels to be found, buried in the muck masking the outer garb of sexual depravity or worse, dereliction of duty and work that man must perform all his days, at least that, according to all the manuscripts. Some will indeed find a pearl of limited price, offered there by the author attempting to paint a warning (and even encouragement) to others who chose a similar path, or in merely conveying a hard lesson painted in such a way that will perhaps take the reader down a gentler and less painful road to their own re-awakening to who they truly are (i.e.; life.)
If to no other end, it is infinitely more entertaining to read about and see others, even narcissistic writers, make mistakes, suffer their falls and bruises, than it is to experience the same ourselves. Lastly, since Tom was an engineer and still is one at heart, his sentences are not worthy of Hemingway comparisons, but more to that of a textbook on strength of materials, predominantly active voice style writing. Understandable to those of the same left-brain predominance, perhaps not so much to those of right-brain slant.
*Video "teaser" on Amazon's Tom Judd authors page.
