Tuesday, May 18, 2010
In Plant Training. (Rape)
My life here basically consists of slaving it out at the factory from 9 - 7 through the day, and although the official timing is from 9 - 5, the watchman doesn't let me out until 7. Nor do my supervisors (fondly called masters by everyone beneath them). This is the "slave on a plantation" part of my life.
After that I come "HOME" to a nylon mattress (the only piece of furniture in the house). From 7 - 11 at night, I try washing my clothes without a washing machine, using only Tide and a brush. Each piece of clothing takes 30 min to brush, and jeans sometimes take 45. After that I try to make dinner and give up, cause there is nothing to cook with (that includes no food material and no cooking utensils). This is the "housemaid" part of my life.
I have two roommates, both of whom are Oriya. I have nothing against the Oriya people who inhabit my country, except for the fact that I wouldn't give a damn ( be extremely happy rather) if they were exterminated from the face of the earth tomorrow. One of them is called Mr. Behra and the other one Mr. Sahu. Both of them don't speak English, or Hindi, or Marathi, or any other language I remotely understand. In fact, what they speak cannot be even called a language. They do however manage to magically cook some Rice and Daal (or something that resembles that kind of food). It has no taste whatsoever. We eat that for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and because we can't get too much of it, sometimes between meals also.
All my life I have been eating Rice and Daal at home, but I have never encountered as little as a tiny granule of stone in my Rice. The rice here seemed to be giving birth to boulders inside my mouth, which i politely take out with my fingers and throw out of the window. But the sons of bitches lacked even this common courtesy. Let me describe a common incident that takes place here during meals.
Mr. Behra is busy gobbling up his rice like its caviar on black bread with champagne.
He encounters a huge boulder in his mouth.
He spits it out.
It lands on my side of the plate. (We have only one plate between the 3 of us.)
Me: Dude, What the Fuck dude! U spit in my plate.
Behra: It's our plate, remember? djdcsdc edefecelclllcecaacdedxaxmmeeca......
dffrwvfoeoopdqd..... (native fuckin oriya)
(continues eating and spitting)
Not exactly the vibe you get dining at the Trident on Sunday afternoons. (Unless there are terrorists, but even that might not be this painful.)
After dinner (haha joke), I try sleeping on my nylon mattress. But as there is no electricity here ever, it gets really hot. This the the "Ginger bread man" part of my life.
So if you think your life sucks, just re read what you just read.
And even if you dream about how your life sucks, wake up and apologize immediately.