Random Conversations Here In Pondicherry: Take #2

Nigel Ashford's excellent essay from The Freeman, titled "Spontaneous Order: Freedom Creates Order In Society," which was linked by my good friend Professor Christopher Lingle on his blog, Natural Order, reminded me of a conversation I had with these two young lads on Beach Road last evening, as I sat there, as I usually do every evening, drinking fine, light, European beer, perfectly chilled. Last night it was Carlsberg: By Appointment to The Royal Danish Court. Hamlet's beer.


One of these lads was, of course, Arun Prakash Rao, whom I have mentioned to you earlier, the young HDFC Bank employee who has taken a fascination for me, and the other was a friend of his who had met me the previous evening too, on which occasion I had advised him to listen to the old Simon & Garfunkel song, "I am a Rock." This good fellow not only followed my advice, he also took out his mobile phone and played it - and I had a VERY GOOD TIME hearing this very old song once again. After that, I advised him to hear "The Boxer," and I trust that this evening he will play this song for me on his mobile phone.


Anyway, what else do young lads talk about to an old lad - but girls, and their problems with finding one for themselves. My advice to them was as follows: Don't think of what YOU want; think of what the girl wants.


I then pointed to the pushcart opposite us, on which this sweet old man sells this excellent sliced mango, sliced in a very artistic way, that too, and upon which he loads major quantities of salty chilly powder - and I often buy this from him, for just 10 rupees, that too, though last night I could not do so, being broke. The two big bottles of Carlsberg had been supplied to me by my hotel, on credit. That is, credit without a credit card, about which more, later.


I told these young lads, when we go to this mango vendor, we do NOT tell him that we DEMAND his mango. Instead, we POLITELY inquire as to what HE DEMANDS for his mango slices. And so, it is the same with girls. Some might want a rich man with a big car. Some might want something else, like an artistic soul who is petrified of white mice. Some might want a brave warrior with a Mighty Phallus, capable of lopping off a Tiger's Head with one one-handed blow of his khukri. And so on. It is all very "subjective," I told them.


And so, I told these good fellows, you guys go on googling all the girls you come across, for "there is plenty of fish in the sea," and surely you will succeed, and find one who wants YOU, because The Holy Bible tells us: 

"Seek and Ye shall Find."

And this PRINCIPLE, I told these lads, of asking the other what he or she wants in exchange for what we want, is as old as Adam Smith. It is this, I told them, that creates PEACE, that creates CIVILISATION - and I urge you all to read Nigel's essay from The Freeman linked above for a longer and more scholarly exposition of this PRINCIPLE.


This morning, as usual, I arrived at the tea shop where I always drink my tea, every morning, and every evening, too. I have been a regular, paying customer of this establishment for quite a few weeks now, but for the past two days I am drinking my tea on credit: that is, credit without a credit card. I have obtained this credit because I am considered credit worthy by the owner of this establishment. 


There is another, important lesson in this: 


If private bankers are in charge of credit allocation, they will be very PRUDENT about whom to allocate credit to, and they will carefully scrutinise the credit-worthiness of those who seek loans from them, and all will be well, and there will be very few defaulters, unlike our PUBLIC SECTOR BANKS, whose balance sheets are loaded with Non Performing Assets: NPAs. These are all DUD LOANS - to "friends" of The Establishment.


Hayek said:

Prudent
Private Bankers 
are the 
Overseers 
of the 
Market Economy

As I sat on the bench sipping my tea, and I had to drink three to clear my head from all the whiskey I drank in my hotel (on credit) after returning from the beach last night, a tough young lad sat across me, along with his equally tough-looking friend, who sat alongside me, and we entered into conversation after I inquired if they were sportsmen. Turned out they were volleyball players from Hyderabad - and I praised this excellent sport, ideal for the poor, for it requires zero equipment, and even girls can play it.


Our conversation then turned to Hyderabad - and I praised this lovely city where I lived for a year long ago, I praised its rocky, undulating terrain, with lovely lakes scattered all over, its excellent weather, with soft, light rain, the lovely grapes that grew there, although there is NO wine - and they were quite charmed.


But I was smoking cigarettes with my tea, cigarettes obtained by mortgaging my mobile phone yesterday - and these sportsmen expressed concern about the fact that, to them, I appeared to be a "chain smoker."


And so, I told them something about the History of Hyderabad: That the last Nizam of Hyderabad chain-smoked locally-made cheroots. They were not aware of this historical fact, and so wanted to learn more from me about their own History. And so I told them some more. Like how when this Nizam washed his collection of pearls, the entire roof of his palace was covered by pearls drying in the sun. I told them that this Nizam had a khoofia police - who were Turks who mingled with the people in mufti in order to overhear conversations that might be of plans to create trouble. He had no other Police Force, of the kind we have today. And then, I told them that Nehru had this good Nizam EVICTED by Police Action. I told them that Sardar Patel had 652 of these well-governed "Princely States" handed over to the IAS and IPS  - with the active collaboration of Lord Mountbatten. After that, they went away, after shaking my hand most affectionately.


As I said, I needed a lot of tea to clear my head of last night's whiskey overdose, and over the second glass, I found a tough, middle-aged Gurkha alongside me. I asked him if he was a Gurkha - and he very proudly replied in the affirmative, adding that HITLER once confessed to being scared of Gurkhas. I had not heard that one before! I told him that I studied in Kurseong, Darjeeling, with Gurkhas - but this fellow was from Nepal.


And so, we discussed Nepal - and what a LOVELY place Kathmandu was in the Old Days, when the Good King Birendra ruled, when there was Freak Street, where the Menu Cards of the restaurants read:

Tea

Hash Tea

Coffee

Hash Coffee

Omlette

Hash Omlette

and so on...

I told him I went on a great LSD trip in Kathmandu during those Good Old Days. And we discussed how Kathmandu is such a LOVELY city - with tram cars, with Toyota taxis, with Japanese motorcycles tourists could hire long, long before such bikes were seen in India, and even a casino in The Oberoi Soaltee. In India, those days, all we had was the Jawa 250cc and the Bullet 350cc.


And, even today, there is no casino in any Oberoi Hotel throughout India - and they started off in Simla, with The Clark's.


I told him Kathmandu was a better city that Simla, Mussorie, or Darjeeling - and it has an airport. And he said: INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.


And then, I asked this good Gurkha, whose name turned out to be Prem, which means "Love," what he was doing here in Pondicherry. Turned out, to my horror, that he works as a peon for the State here. And that his wife and kids are back home, tending their farm. I told him to QUIT, to return, and to FIGHT FOR FREEDOM.


And then, I began walking towards this air-conditioned Internet outlet where I have been working, every morning, and every evening, too. For all these weeks, I have been a regular, paying customer. But for the past two days it is on credit without a credit card. But with the good man who runs this establishment, a good man with the good name Germain, I mortgaged a copy of George Charles Roche III's Frederic Bastiat: A Man Alone, a book that is out of print, and which I obtained second-hand via the Internet long ago, at considerable expense. I advised him to read the book, written by a former US Marine Officer, who was also a good friend of Lew Rockwell, and who is now dead.


But this man is now hassling me over his dues. So I am taking this book back.


Now, today happens to be SUNDAY - and on this happy day, there is Sunday Bazaar outside on the street. And vendors have their wares on display on the ground, and the guy right outside this Internet establishment is selling OLD BOOKS.


So, I am now going to sell George Charles Roche III's Frederic Bastiat: A Man Alone right outside, on the pavement, and, with the proceeds, clear all my dues, and hopefully even recover my mobile phone from the cigarette vendor nearby, whom I owe 250 rupees.


Wish Me Luck!