In memoriam: the Bakelite telephone

You must have seen the squat little thing a hundred times in pre-Technicolor movies: the dumbbell receiver cradled on a truncated pyramid with a round dial for a face, the digits from 0 to 9 written in the holes. Zero used to be right at the bottom, with the dragon’s tooth next to it to stop your finger from dialling beyond that point.

I remember the cloth-covered curly cord connecting the receiver to the main body of the telephone which used to turn stringy and unelastic like a pyjama cord with use, or tie itself up in knots so that you had to bend down and hold an entire conversation in that semi-foetal position before hanging up and finally finding the time to unravel the ruddy thing.

The dialling was an exercise in patience, especially if you were in a hurry, because you could dial the zero fast enough – the zero being right next to the ‘finger stopper’. You could dial ‘1’ with almost equal ease, though this time the dialling finger had to go all the way from the top to the bottom – with the difference that it took several seconds for the dial to come back to the neutral position, making that catarrhal K-r-r-r-r-h sound. And the ‘engaged’ tone did not come right away either. You dialled the whole number and then got the engaged tone. Or you got the wrong number.

That’s what I tell the youngsters of today: the whole fun has gone out of wrong numbers. Today you get a wrong number because the number you have dialled or some other fool has dialled is wrong. In the olden days, you did everything right and still got a wrong number because the girl at the exchange – she used to get into the fray from time to time, asking you to vacate the line, there’s a trunk call coming and so on.

The telephone did not ring all that often in those days, hence the whole household was electrified when the phone rang, with that frantic K-r-r-r-n-g Kr-r-r-r-n-g, pause, K-r-r-r-n-g Kr-r-r-r-n-g noise like a fire alarm on fire! You ran into something and hurt your knee trying to reach the telephone before anyone else – might be your girlfriend ringing up whom your mother dislikes intensely and has been waiting for just an opportunity like this to be nasty to, if only on the telephone. And then it turns out to be a wrong number, someone asking whether this was the hosiery factory, yes, next to the hooch shop? Bless him.

There was only one thing better than wrong numbers and these were the cross connections. Now, don’t look up ‘cross connection’ on Google because they’ll tell you that it’s got something to do with plumbing and/or datacentres. The old-fashioned cross connection was some innocent mutt being plugged into the conversation that you’re having – and Gawd help you if that person is not a mutt but someone like my youngest maternal uncle – may his soul rest in peace – who simply used to wait for the wrong numbers and the cross connections with glee – he used to love creating confusion and Calcutta Telephones’ other name was confusion, so they suited each other to a T.

Telephone rings. Wrong number. Uncle grabs the receiver and says, ‘Speak. What can I do for You?’ (Which is not rude or impolite in Bengali, especially when combined with the respect form of address). ‘Is this the house of Mister So-and-so?’ Uncle puts on a grave voice and says: ‘Yes. Anything else?’ ‘I wanted to talk to him…’ ‘I’m sorry. You should have rung up yesterday, no, even this morning. You could still have seen him, even if you couldn’t speak to him.’ ‘Why? What has happened?’ asks the frightened voice. Uncle turns solemn, and then pious: ‘He had a heart attack last night and we took him to the cremating ground this morning. Just coming back from there.’ Stunned silence at the other end, funereal silence at Uncle’s. Then the timid query from the other side: ‘Are you still there?’ ‘Yes,’ Uncle says, ‘and this is still a wrong number, you twit.’ Cruel? Yes, but fun.

If Uncle ever got a cross connection, again, Gawd help the other two at their respective ends! Uncle could create more confusion with an occasional ‘yes’ or an intermittent ‘no’ than you’d imagine possible. ‘Did you mean it when you said that I’m too fat?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Okay, if it’s that way…’ ‘Wait! Wait! That wasn’t me. There’s somebody on the line…’ They both listen. Uncle listens too. Then the doves start cooing again: ‘Do you really love me?’ the girl seems to be anxious. ‘No,’ Uncle says and so on.

Those Bakelite telephones have eavesdropped on more intimate conversations in their time than the NSA in ours. The Bakelite telephone would burn forever in hell if it was left to mothers like mine – the sweet lady is no more, but some of her choicest sarcasm was reserved for the occasions when I was hanging at that Bakelite telephone chatting to – you don’t really have to know. I used to bring Shall-Remain-Nameless back to her hostel, catch the bus back home and ring up the hostel at once – a girls’ hostel with God knows how many inmates but just that one telephone. ‘She’s in the shower. Shall we call her?’ giggle, giggle. And then an irate Shall-Remain-Nameless would materialise at the other end, though none too pleased, to judge by her voice: ‘Yes, what is it? What d’you want?’ ‘Why, are you in a hurry?’ ‘I’m in my towel.’ Silence. Suspicion at the other end: ‘Are you still there?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then why aren’t you saying anything?’ ‘D’you know they’ll be having telephones in the future where you’ll be able to see the person you’re talking to?’

Our telephone number used to be 4*2*6*. After the ground floor flat on Hazra Road had been ‘vacated’ by all of us as if the girl at the exchange – no, as if we were on the set of ‘Friends’ and the series was over, an unusual thing happened: nobody dismantled the set and nobody lived there either. So the place was locked up for years with the scrub growing in the kitchen courtyard. Me and my youngest brother, we used to ring up 4*2*6* from as far away as Bonn and Ottawa for years afterwards, just to hear that ghostly ring.

I quoted the first lines of Walter de la Mare’s The Listeners to my brother: “‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller” and so on.

My brother, who like yours truly had made the mistake of studying English Literature at a young and impressionable age, quoted Donne right back at me: “therefore never send to know for whom the phone rings; it rings for thee.”

Unloving you

I know there is no emoji for Unlove. Maybe one is supposed to click repeatedly on Love till it goes sour & blue like Roquefort cheese? In any case, Unlove would be an emoji that women would use more often than men, since women seem to fall out of love faster’n men fall in love.

I’m waiting for the trolling.

And still I shall dare to claim that men are sensitive creatures.

May I continue? Have you stopped laughing? As I know you will, because this is a serious matter. Back in 1968 Tom Jones sang a song by the title of Delilah and the world went gaga. The song was about a crime passionnel, a crime of passion. A man kills a woman in a fit of jealousy – how that is any less deplorable than honour killing, I shall never know. As regards the song, I find the text too chilling for me to quote from it at any length, just google it and you’ll get the case history. She is spending the night with a lover while he watches the ‘flickering shadow of love’ on her blind from the street outside. The lover leaves at dawn and our Samson agonistes – which has nothing to do with agony, by the way, but simply means “a contestant in the public games” – well, this particular contestant goes and puts an end to the whole shindig with his knife.

Well, that’s how ‘sensitive’ men can/could be, since the stone age, to be exact, or from the stone age till today, or till last Tuesday, to be even more exact, when a 27 year old man went into a haircutting saloon in Düren, Germany, and shot his wife in the head before putting the nozzle to his own temple and blowing his brains out. The wife survived, thank God.

Had the wife pressed the Unlove button? Had she simply told him, “I don’t love you any more”? No, apparently the Samson in the song didn’t have a clue until he was walking past Delilah’s window – just out for a stroll and not stalking, mind you – when he saw the infernal light. So Delilah was being unfaithful and had been caught in flagrante delicto, as they say. But I very much doubt this version of the events – as related by Samson – because Kasia, who is a psychotherapist, once told me that women usually start looking for a new partner after they’ve left the old one, whereas men leave their old partner because they’ve found a new one. And the ‘old’ and the ‘new’ take on a very different hue in the case of men when we consider the male predilection for women half their age.

Kasia doubts, in short, the whole ‘happening to walk past her window’ business and maintains that Delilah had already jilted Samson, which is why he was stalking Delilah, as simple as that. That is when I tried to tell Kasia about male sensitivity, making her laugh till the tears came, as the Germans say. The Germans – the men – also drink till the doctor comes, but that is neither here nor there. Whereas it is not often that I can make Kasia laugh, or cry, let alone both at the same time, so we’ll let it stand at that – but the point is that we men do not have an Unlove button, as I was trying to tell Kasia, God or Mark Zuckerberg having forgotten to give us one. We do not have too many emojis either. Like dogs, we have to express all our sentiments by growling, or barking, or whining, or snarling, or wagging our tail – have I left out anything? Oh, and we cannot sweat, that is why we pant, which women often mistake for passion.

Kasia, like all women, has around a thousand emojis to talk to her husband (that’s me!) without saying one word. The ultimate emoji is the woman’s face, I declare. It’s like a logogram, as with chinese or japanese characters – and about as readable to us men. It’s not just that women make faces about as numerous as Han characters, what they say – the audible emojis – may have a completely different meaning depending on the tone. It’s like Kasia saying, “Yes, yes, you are right”, which means that I am wrong.

Otherwise ask any zoo keeper. Are lions sensitive? Are tigers sensitive? All large and dangerous animals, animals who can hurt you if rubbed the wrong way – are they sensitive? They are short-tempered – apart from being short-sighted – and irascible and unpredictable. But are they sensitive? I claim that they are and the best proof of it is the missing Unlove button – or even the double click on the Love button? Must try that one out.

All in all, women remember their old loves, men never forget them. Men cannot unlove. They carry their old flames in the dark dungeons of their heart till their dying day: the girl who used to walk barefoot from room to room with the grace of a kathak dancer (which she was learning); the girl who used to walk up to the crowded bus stop like Cleopatra looking for Mark Antony among the camel drivers at the Cheops pyramid while Caesar lay cold and lifeless in his Temple at the Forum in Rome – otherwise there might have been another crime passionnel! And then the girl ogled steadfastly from afar for a whole undergraduate year who carries the blush, together with the ogler, to this day; lastly, the girl who used to wait for the worst kind of verbiage – I’m talking about the love letters of an ongoing novelist or what my mother used to call my ‘epistolary literature’ – in any case, ‘she’ used to wait for them as if for rain. It’s that waiting emoji that has survived. The letters have gone where they should.

And does Kasia mind? Not in the least. She is not jealous of all those ‘foreign’ princesses and queens who held sway before her reign. It’s hardly a kingdom, more of a duchy, I’d say – but nothing is grander for a woman than to hold sway over a man’s heart, which is like the Vatican filled with not just two popes but any number of popes and all of them women.

There is no Unsex button for the man either, it seems, otherwise why should W. Somerset Maugham write in his autobiography “The Summing Up” (1938) that sex was about the best thing he had experienced in his earthly existence (not his exact words)? He was 64. Gabriel García Márquez wrote his “Memories of My Melancholy Whores” (2004) when he was 77. The story? A 90 year old journalist seeks sex from a young prostitute who’s selling her virginity to help her family. In any case, the nonegenarian finds not sex but love. Sensitive, eh? Sensible, too. See, men don’t think of anything but –

Love, what else? Even when they are ninety.

The Beatification of Angelina Jolie

After Bob Dylan got the Nobel Prize for Literature and entered the Nobel Hall of Fame, it was only a question of time before the Vatican followed suit. Within hours came the announcement, Angelina Jolie was to be beatified. Before her demise? disbelievers complained. Well, she’s not half as much box office as she used to be in her Lara Croft days, is she? the Vatican secretray said. And now she’s broken up with BRad Pitt and is just ANGELINA. You know what that means in Hollywood, or in the Vatican, don’t you?

Saint La La, as her devotees are already calling her, will be the first Christian saint to have had three husbands and six children. The UNHCR has devised a plan for her to ‘adopt’ three and a half million refugee children – a symbolic adoption, but no more symbolic than Turkey taking back refugees or Germany welcoming them. As regards the objection to her still being ‘alive’, Michael Jackson earned $825 million last year, seven years after his death, making some artists who are still alive wish they were dead. Why just beatification, ANJOLIE – Anjali? – might well become the first saint to achieve canonisation in the course of her mortal existence, the Vatican said. The Swedish Academy has set the pace and shown the way. Not just with Bob Dylan. What about Malala Yousafzai getting the Nobel Peace Prize with seventeen? The only thing left for her to become now is the first Muslim woman president of the United States, right after Donald Trump, say.

As we can see now, both the Nobel Committee and the Vatican are doing it right, in these days of the Internet and the Twitter and the Instagram – you got to beat the masses, you got to beat History, you got to beat Time. Can’t wait for a saint to die before you canonise her or him. She or he is old hat by then. You gotta catch ’em young. Malala got the Nobel with 17, that was in 2014, she being born in 1997. History was already in the making in the sense that a male child by the name of Justin Drew Bieber had been born three years earlier in London – Ontario, Canada – and would be just 16 by the time he released his debut single One Time in 2009.

What was the Nobel Committee doing, pray? Had they given the Nobel Prize for Literature in time to Justin Bieber, who knows what might have happened? He’s written or co-written 42 songs since then, I’m told (by Wikipedia). And I know that Benazir Bhutto got shot after becoming the first woman prime minister of Pakistan. Malala might do it the other way round, bless her, as a cynic friend of mine quipped the other day. Dylan wrote 271 songs in 55 years; ‘Just in’ would have done that ‘in just’ 45 years. So combining Dylan and Malala, a grave injustice has been done to Justin Bieber. The only way to salvage the situation is for the Nobel Committee to give him the Nobel Peace Prize as well as the Nobel Prize for Literature, at one go – that would be something new all over again and set the wires buzzing.

We’d forgotten all about Saint La La in all this hooey about Justin and Malala. Every saint has enemies. Angelina had the Fiery Jennifer, whom she vanquished. And now she’s got the Wily Amal – the Clooney woman, who is gunning for sainthood too. Both of them are active in the refugee sector. And then the Vatican exploded the bombshell: apparently it’s a new secretray and he mixed up Anjolie and Amal and – now hold on tight – Angie, our very own Angela Merkel! Merkel and not Angelina is to be beatified, no, canonised, because she has already performed her miracle. “One of my favorites is Angela Merkel because I think she’s been an extraordinary, strong leader during difficult times in Europe, which has obvious implications for the rest of the world and, most particularly, our country,” this is what Hillary Clinton has said about the German Chancellor – and Donald Trump has accused Hillary of wanting to be America’s Angela Merkel. So it’s not Saint La La but Saint Angela, the reporters got it all wrong, the Vatican secretary says.

But we still have to resolve the issue, was it right to give the Nobel Prize for Literatrure to Bob Dylan? All we’ve got to do is to remember that Winston Churchill, no less, was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1953 “for his mastery of historical and biographical description as well as for brilliant oratory in defending exalted human values”. After that, I suggest the next Nobel Prize for Literature be awarded to the Nobel Committee for – you figure it out.

I asked my good fiend Bob what he thought about the whole shindig and this is what he said, or sang: “Someone’s got it in for me, they’re planting stories in the press / Whoever it is I wish they’d cut it out but when they will I can only guess”. When Sara Danius, the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, rang up to tell Bob, he apparently picked up his guitar and sang: “You’re an idiot, babe. / It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe” (Idiot Wind, 1974).

Wish you’re like you never won the Nobel prize the next time you write a song, Bob, and remember, we still love you.

The Golden Boat

My advice to all artists, or to anybody trying to do anything creative, would be a dictum from the French sculptor Auguste Rodin (1840-1917), toujour travailler, ‘work all the time’. And I’d add to that Überleben ist alles, ‘survival is all’, which is from the Bohemian-Austrian German poet Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926).

Why does a writer write, or an artist create art? Because it is in his nature. As the fish swims and the bird flies. Not every fish is a great swimmer and not every bird is a great flier – some birds have even lost the power of flight. Fish are always in the water but birds are not always in the air – arists are more like birds than fish, in that sense. But birds too nest on the ground – or in trees. Birds too die and in the end the earth is as full of birds as the skies.

What does that teach us? It teaches us that an eagle is just another bird until it spreads its wings and soars. The artist is most an artist, all of an artist, when he creates. The rest of the time he is just an ordinary human being, but an ordinary human being dreaming of fame & fortune, in the short run, and of immortality, in the long. Hey, I like that ‘in the long’ – ‘run’ implied or understood – which is actually a German usage, a teutonism of the kind that can creep in after you’ve spent a lifetime – well, half a lifetime – in this country. Where was I?

The artist hopes for remembrance and dreams of immortality. The great Nirad C. Chaudhuri of the Bengalis, of The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian fame, was hoping, as a nonagenarian and with tears in his eyes, that the Bengalis, at least, would remember him. Martin Amis reportedly told Salman Rushdie that he was hoping to leave behind a shelfful of books – presumably after he’d checked into the Horizontal Hilton (which is one of the 101 euphemisms for dying I found online). I call it the Tragical History Tour of the artists, on the parallel of the Magical Mystery Tour of the Beatles.

All artists, politicians and Great Men – women less so, strangely enough – are desperate to get on to that bandwagon called History. Now check the full definition of ‘bandwagon’ on Merriam-Webster/Google: a bandwagon is a usually ornate and high wagon for a band of musicians especially in a circus parade, wow! Is there a better description of History, that Eternal Circus Parade that all Great Men – less so the women – are ‘dying’ to get into?

The trouble is that you cannot write – or paint or make music – for posterity just as you cannot write a classic, which would be like giving birth to a baby with a beard. You have to write a bestseller first, which will turn into a classic some day – hopefully, since not every bestseller turns automatically into a classic. Hence the only way to find out whether you are a Tagore or a Shakespeare is to live 155 years (counting from 2016), if you are Tagore, and 452 years, if you are Shakespeare.

Tagore, good that the name has cropped up: take the ‘Ta’ of Ta-Ta and the ‘gore’ of Al Gore and you’ll have Tagore, or Tagoray, if you are a German, since the British cannot pronounce any word, the French pronounce everything by half and the Germans pronounce every letter of every word – including the ‘e’ at the end of Tagore.

Robindronath Thakur aka Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) was of course the national poet of the Bengalis who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913 for some of the most atrocious translations of his own poems from a collection called Gitanjali. I say atrocious because my Bengali soul revolts when I see ‘ekti nomoshkarey probhu’ turned into ‘One salutation to thee, my God’. Tagore did the translations himself, partially while residing in the feudal mansion called Kuthi Bari of the Tagores in Shilaidaha, in the Kushtia district of today’s Bangladesh.

The purpose of Tagore’s many sojourns in the picturesque Bengali countryside was mainly or partially to manage the family estates. That he wrote some of the greatest poems & songs of the Bengali language in his spare time – such as Sonar Tori or The Golden Boat – while lounging comfortably on the family houseboat – I’m sure nobody has anything against it, though I’m yet to ask Marx & Engels.

From his houseboat, Tagore must have seen what I used to see on the Bag Bazar canal in my childhood, while sitting in the 79c bus on my way to ‘Dhaneshkhali’ for the summer or the puja holidays. One couldn’t see the canal from the Jessore Road, but one could see what looked like giant golden tortoises creeping across the green ricefields – just towboats laden with hay, or floating hayricks, as I’d find out later. No corn, please note.

Tagore, on the other hand, wrote a wonderful poem in which the Golden Boat of Time comes and takes away the golden corn of the artist, who gets left behind like the poor farmer – it is an image which has not left me since, ever since I came across that poem for the first time, at around the same age that I was watching my own Golden Tortoises crawl past Jessore Road trying to hide from the ferocious Tata Mercedes Benz buses. The buses won, as usual.

I also think of us ‘also-ran’ artists/writers – the scrub or the undergrowth of the art world in its semi-arid zones, if you like – I think of us as the farmers who have to take their meagre produce to the market, and haggle with the agents over the price, and get cheated by the middlemen and duped by the con men and harassed by the police…

No wonder we get drunk on hooch & go and visit bad women & come back and beat up our duteous wives – women are less violent – finally go and recruit ourselves as factory hands leaving the Golden Boat to find its golden corn at some other bend in the river the next time.

Connectivitis

I had a bad attack of it, I remember, when I was running to my laptop and Facebook fifteen times a day. At times nothing came but I still tried, most frustrating, I must say. Went to my doctor and he said: ‘Connectivitis? That’s not the usual term. Are you talking about the connective tissue disease?’ ‘What on earth is that?’ I asked. ‘CTD? Well, connective tissue means things like fat, bone or cartilage. Do you have a stretchy skin or bleeding gums?’ Hell, no! I said, I gotta go to the FB fifteen times a day, that’s all. ‘Just fifteen times? That’s connectivitis mellitus, type two, like diabetes mellitus, you know what that is?’ I not only do, I have it, it’s Latin for ‘honeyed flow’, suits FB to a T, even if Facebook doesn’t have a T in it.

But I must say that I was impressed. This doctor of ours is a busy man. It was close to a wonder that he had heard about connectivitis mellitus, which is a viral disease, but of the mind. It comes from an excess of connectivity and might even become chronic unless measures are taken & pronto. The virus is everywhere, every time you log into the Facebook. The kind of things that your friends post – and you yourself help in spreading the virus the moment you share them. You even like them, the more the irony: it’s like giving a Like to the dengue virus. But the connectivirus is as ingenuous as it is insidious. People who haven’t thought of you on any of the other 364 days congratulate you on your birthday and you are pleased. Friends of yours are excited about everything from the American elections to the coming Indo-Pak war, you gather and are excited yourself. There’s so much happening in the world and YOU are a part of it, you are a part of history in the making. It’s like being a soldier in the Crimean War & nearly getting nursed by Florence Nightingale.

Fact is that during the Crimean war of 1853-56 more soldiers were killed in a cholera epidemic than in battle – as I read somewhere. Apparently the cholera started in China and took four years to reach Europe, killing combatants and non-combatants with equal disregard on the way. I know, I know, FB is not about war, it is all about peace – you’ll say – if peace could only kill. It can & it does. It kills the mind and not the body, that is why it does not get 250 years in the nick every time the case comes up before the International Peace Crimes Tribunal. I asked a judge and he shook his wig and said: ‘Facebook? Open Google and type ‘f’ and you’ll get facebook right away. Click on that and Google will tell you that it’s found 16 billion 850 million results in zero-point-two-one seconds, that’s around one-fifth of a second. Almost like the God particle they’ve been looking for at CERN, don’t you think? You got a complaint against God?’

‘No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘All I want to say is…’

‘Well, don’t,’ the hon’ble judge said, so I won’t. But I’m allowed to talk about connectivitis in a general, non-subpoenable form, it seems. You get a ‘wall’ of your own when you join Facebook – and things posted by your ‘friends’ keep appearing on it – and then again of the ‘friends’ you’ve been interacting with – strange algorithms determine what you get to see or do not get to see. Don’t interact for a few days and FB will tell you which eight or nine ‘friends’ of yours you’ve been missing – missing out on their posts i.e. – and you’ll end up feeling more lonely than ever. Nobody loves you, you’ll feel, and worse than that, you don’t love AB (that’s anybody). ‘I’m incapable of love & friendship, je suis perdu’ – you’ll think – ‘I am lost in the Outer Darkness where there is no chat & no chatter, no tweets & no Twitter, no Instagram & no chai gram’ – no, that would be the plaintive cry of an Indian tea vendor calling out ‘Hot tea!’ – actually ‘Tea hot!’ – when the train halts at some minor railway station, preferably in the early hours of the morning…

My ‘wall’ has something as soothing about it as the mud wall of my (hypothetical/metaphorical) hut in an Indian village on which friends & neighbours have ‘posted’ their ghuñtiya, their cowdung cakes to dry. The ‘posts’ come in all shapes and sizes and reveal the size of the ego behind them, from ‘Gabriela is very pretty’ to ‘I was born here’. What do I mean? I’ll tell you.

When we used to live in Oberdollendorf near Bonn, I used to wait for the tram at the Oberdollendorfer tram station – where else? – in the morning, together with the local kids going to some local school, boys and girls, ranging from eleven to whatever in age, at a guess. A happy, noisy, boisterous lot, they used to troop into one of the two cars as if they were a conquering army – except for this small and shy, bespectacled, knock-knee’d Harry Potter of a boy who used to stand in a corner and always get in the compartment other than the one ‘Gabriela’ had got into, Gabriela or Gabi being the tallest, the loudest and the prettiest 13-14-15 year old girl in the whole lot. And then one day I discovered this graffiti scribbled in very small letters on the glass wall of the waiting shed: ‘Gabriela is very pretty.’ Wonder if Gabi ever saw it and did she become friends with Harry Potter? On Facebook, maybe.

I prefer the other kind of ego, as displayed by some unknown adolescent in ‘Bonn South’. They had just repainted the huge, blank, windowless five or six-storeyed side of the St. Elisabeth hospital – on the Loestrasse side – and in yellow, if I remember correctly, when I discovered this graffiti scribbled with a marker on that veritable cliff of a wall: ‘I was born here’. Just that. No name. Again in very small letters. Grand. Why should the St. Elisabeth hospital in Bonn be famous, in case it already isn’t? Because I was born there.

Would love to see that boy’s posts on FB. How do I know it’s a boy? I don’t. Nothing was written on his Timeline.