Ha ha ha
I've gone completely beserk. I'm happy!
It's definitely the work out. Has to be. Pumping iron like there's no tomorrow. Staring at yourself in the mirror, sweat flowing down from everywhere - your forehead, your neck, from behind the ears, and ending up on your stomach. The sleevless T-shirt's drenched. You lift it up to wipe your face, and the three biscuits just below your chest emerge, shining through the sweat - the formation of abs. Results, at last!
What a feeling.
A smoke and a shower - no cold water here. In this heat... you gotta be kidding. So a hot shower it is. The water burns on your skin. It feels good nevertheless.
Sun tan lotion, loads of deo, and you walk out. Will I get a cab soon? Maybe.
There's a building being constructed just 100 yards ahead. Construction workers, dressed from head to tow, dying in the heat, but still working. The heat doubles up after rebounding from the stone and white mud. But they have to.
Just before you cross the road, a man, has to be a keralite, looks like it, sees you and stops his Honda City (a down market car). It's not a taxi. But it's what most keralites and even people from other nationalities, like Pakistani, or Iranians, or, Egyptians do in their free time - Drive around for cab seekers. It makes them about QR 50-60 a day. A fantastic and the easiest way to earn an extra buck.
QR 5 till Gulf Times office from the Doha Club - a distance of about four kilometers. You'd walk it if it wasn't summer in Qatar.
You enter the cafe. Hungry - and dying to eat the huge meal of Chicken Batato - a humungous piece of chicken (like they show in Tom and Jerry), salad, rice and patotoes, oh and not to mention the thin yellow soup, which you never touch. And you have no idea why.
But Mohamed's gone for his prayers. It's prayer time at 3pm.
So here I am - starving, waiting for Mohamed, who doesn't understand a word that I say except for Lunch, and in more than several ways he tells me without uttering a word that I am one of the very few Indians who he likes, because I am one of the very very few Indians who love (bland) Egyptian food. He smiles at me. Calls me on my extention to ask, "Rohet, Rohet, Lunch? Beef today."
I'm happy. Alone, but happy.
It has to be the work out.
It's definitely the work out. Has to be. Pumping iron like there's no tomorrow. Staring at yourself in the mirror, sweat flowing down from everywhere - your forehead, your neck, from behind the ears, and ending up on your stomach. The sleevless T-shirt's drenched. You lift it up to wipe your face, and the three biscuits just below your chest emerge, shining through the sweat - the formation of abs. Results, at last!
What a feeling.
A smoke and a shower - no cold water here. In this heat... you gotta be kidding. So a hot shower it is. The water burns on your skin. It feels good nevertheless.
Sun tan lotion, loads of deo, and you walk out. Will I get a cab soon? Maybe.
There's a building being constructed just 100 yards ahead. Construction workers, dressed from head to tow, dying in the heat, but still working. The heat doubles up after rebounding from the stone and white mud. But they have to.
Just before you cross the road, a man, has to be a keralite, looks like it, sees you and stops his Honda City (a down market car). It's not a taxi. But it's what most keralites and even people from other nationalities, like Pakistani, or Iranians, or, Egyptians do in their free time - Drive around for cab seekers. It makes them about QR 50-60 a day. A fantastic and the easiest way to earn an extra buck.
QR 5 till Gulf Times office from the Doha Club - a distance of about four kilometers. You'd walk it if it wasn't summer in Qatar.
You enter the cafe. Hungry - and dying to eat the huge meal of Chicken Batato - a humungous piece of chicken (like they show in Tom and Jerry), salad, rice and patotoes, oh and not to mention the thin yellow soup, which you never touch. And you have no idea why.
But Mohamed's gone for his prayers. It's prayer time at 3pm.
So here I am - starving, waiting for Mohamed, who doesn't understand a word that I say except for Lunch, and in more than several ways he tells me without uttering a word that I am one of the very few Indians who he likes, because I am one of the very very few Indians who love (bland) Egyptian food. He smiles at me. Calls me on my extention to ask, "Rohet, Rohet, Lunch? Beef today."
I'm happy. Alone, but happy.
It has to be the work out.
posted by Once the Conman at 3:28 PM
3 Comments:
qatar seems fun..
:)
It's pretty ok.
Different from India. And different = good.
hmm... must b the work-out, indeed.
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