#Cigar india

[herpsandbirds]

Common Silverline (Cigaritis vulcanus), family Lycaenidae, India

photograph by Selvapandiyan

[brandonsdrunkagain]

Atomic Torpedo from Sierra Nevada, three different Jai Alias from Cigar City, Port Orleans Pilsner, Shiner Trail Mix, Second Lines Bock On, Don’t Hassle Me I’m Local Blood Orange from Destin Brewing and Cajun Fires Big Queen Porter!

[poojascmi]

India Cigar and Cigarillos Market Is Estimated To Witness High Growth Owing To Increasing Demand for Premium Cigars

The India Cigar and Cigarillos market is estimated to be valued at US$ 2,784.0 Th in 2020 and is expected to exhibit a CAGR of 4.5% over the forecast period 2021-2028, as highlighted in a new report published by Coherent Market Insights. A) Market Overview: Cigars and cigarillos are tobacco products that are rolled in a tobacco leaf and are larger in size compared to cigarettes. They are known for their premium quality and distinct flavors, making them popular among consumers who enjoy smoking tobacco leisurely. The Indian cigar and cigarillos market has witnessed significant growth in recent years, driven by an increasing number of individuals who prefer premium cigars as a status symbol and for relaxation purposes. The Indian cigar and cigarillos market offer a variety of options, including hand-rolled cigars, machine-made cigars, flavored cigars, and more. These products are associated with a rich flavor profile and a unique smoking experience. The demand for cigars and cigarillos has also been fueled by the growing popularity of cigar lounges and clubs, where individuals can socialize and enjoy their favorite tobacco products in a luxurious setting. B) Market Key Trends: One key trend observed in the Indian cigar and cigarillos market is the increasing demand for premium cigars. Consumers are showing a growing interest in high-quality, hand-rolled cigars that offer a unique taste and experience. This trend can be attributed to the rising disposable income levels and changing lifestyles of individuals. Premium cigars are often associated with luxury and sophistication, making them a popular choice among affluent consumers. For example, Gurkha Cigar Group, one of the key players in the Indian cigar and cigarillos market, offers a range of premium cigars that are crafted with rare and exotic tobaccos. These cigars are known for their exquisite flavors, impeccable construction, and beautiful packaging, attracting cigar enthusiasts who appreciate the finer things in life. C) PEST Analysis: Political: The political landscape in India plays a significant role in shaping the cigar and cigarillos market. Government regulations and policies regarding tobacco products, including taxes and advertising restrictions, can impact the growth and distribution of cigars and cigarillos. Economic: The economic conditions in India, such as GDP growth, inflation rates, and consumer spending patterns, influence the purchasing power of consumers and their willingness to spend on premium tobacco products. Social: The social factors shaping the Indian cigar and cigarillos market include changing lifestyles, cultural preferences, and the perception of cigars as a status symbol. Social acceptance and preferences towards smoking also impact the demand for these products. Technological: Technological advancements in the manufacturing process of cigars and cigarillos can improve product quality, consistency, and efficiency. Innovations in packaging and storage techniques also play a role in preserving the freshness and flavor of cigars. D) Key Takeaways: 1: The India Cigar and Cigarillos Market is expected to witness high growth, exhibiting a CAGR of 4.5% over the forecast period. This growth can be attributed to increasing demand for premium cigars among consumers. Premium cigars offer a unique taste and smoking experience, making them popular among individuals who seek luxury and sophistication. 2: In terms of regional analysis, India is expected to be the fastest-growing and dominating region in the cigar and cigarillos market. The country has a large population of cigar enthusiasts who appreciate premium tobacco products. Additionally, India's evolving economic landscape and increasing disposable income levels contribute to the growth of the market.

[thenerdyolive]

Tintin in India (Part I) - Gaipajama

Cigars of the Pharaoh, The Blue Lotus

[heaven-is-in-your-arms-series]

Just What Was Wan Smoking?

I suspect, for the most part, Wan was smoking cheroots.

Cheroots are filterless cylindrical cigars, easy to hand roll and clipped at both ends.

In Thailand, they were traditionally rolled in banana leaves and as well as tobacco, the leaves of the Indian cork tree were often added, along with the flowers sometimes for fragrance.

Things like molasses, honey, rice wine, pineapple and banana were often used to sweeten the mixture.

Sometimes cannabis could be added, which was historically used for pain relief in Thailand.

It seems like Wan relies on smoking these as a way to manage his mental health issues, like many smokers, who reach for a cigarette when they are stressed, we often see him smoking when he is feeling disturbed.

We can see from the film that Khem seems very comfortable with the act of stealing but we only ever see him steal or think about stealing, cheroots on Wan's behalf.

He even splashes out on expensive imported "cigarettes," as a gift for Wan which his friend is clearly touched by. That recognition from Khem, that these are important for Wan.

It's as if he recognises that they are something Wan needs, we never see Khem smoke himself although they were both clearly fans of betel chewing before they were forbidden to do so in ManSuang.

Hence their black teeth.

Betel nut is a stimulant and many people describe the act of chewing betel as giving them a bit of a high. It is certainly addictive but was also a standard part of socialising for a very long time in several parts of Southeast Asia and India.

As Khem and Wan are forbidden from chewing betel while they stay at ManSuang, it is likely that they both would have experienced some withdrawal symptoms and this probably made Wan rely on the cheroots even more.

Cheroots originated in India along with beedies which historically were made from leftover scraps of tobacco and rolled into leaves.

Cheroot smoking was very traditional both in India and Myanmar.

[qiumenglin]

Some EAsian Headcanons (because I don’t know what to post)

China be complaining about air pollution and be carrying a box of cigars everywhere.

Korea gets the most girls amongst all the EAsians. Macau comes close.

Japan has a pond with koi fish in his garden.

Japan is very very competitive. Would fight tooth and nail to be better than his opponents.

Hong Kong has insomnia because of all the lights. Other EAsians have a really lively night life, but they’ve gotten over it.

Korea, on the other hand, stays up late because he can, and can wake up early too.

Hong Kong is a germaphobe and carries sanitizer and wet tissue packets everywhere. Has trust issues when it comes to sanitation. Never uses his finger to press the lift button.

China once snuck into the British museum and took back a painting he made about 500 years ago, which he spent a week on. Caused international disputes as he sips on his tea with no milk and never planning on giving it up. (Inspired India to do the same)

Mongolia is part of almost every Asian Region group chat(after a ton of persuasion, bargaining, and begging. He just wants to leak the gossip and drama).

China, South Korea, Japan, and Mongolia(mainly with China) get into arguments 24/7. They’re internet fights are crazy, and they’re accounts have been suspended and banned multiple times.

China spoils the heck out of North Korea. He would be (maybe illegally) sending him all kinds of fancy stuff, which is currently piling up in N.K’s storage room.

[ingek73]

Comedy wildlife photography awards 2024 – in pictures

Loved-up brown bears and whispering raccoons feature in this light-hearted look at a selection of finalists from the Nikon Comedy Wildlife awards. A winner will be announced on 10 December

Matt Fidler

Thu 26 Sept 2024 08.00 BST

Hello world

Black hole with ant peering through autumn leaf

In a dark forest in Maashorst in the Netherlands last autumn, a happy red ant looks down at us. I like the tones of the autumn leaf. So warm. The ant was fast, but with a little help of a flashlight I was able to freeze the motion

Photograph: Alex Pansier

Mantis flamenca

Mantis mediterranea holding arms up in a comedic pose

On my way back in the car from a photo walk around a marsh near my town (Onda in Spain), I braked suddenly. This was when I first saw my friend, the Flemish mantis. You can imagine the faces inside the passing vehicles, seeing a car with its indicators on, the door open, and a madman lying on the ground with his camera

Photograph: Jose Miguel Gallego Molina

The speed skater

A Steller’s sea eagle skating on ice

A Steller’s sea eagle in drifting sea ice off the coast of Rausu, Hokkaido, Japan

Photograph: Mark Meth-Cohn

In love

Bears hugging in a lake

After the meeting ... comes the best hug. Bears in Sitka, Alaska

Photograph: Andrea Rosado

Smooching owlets

Three spotted owlets on a branch

It was truly a funny sight to see two spotted owlets (in Gurgaon, India) trying to get some privacy as their offspring stood next to them with a grin and closed eyes

Photograph: Sarthak Ranganadhan

I’ll tell you a secret

Three racoons in a tree

A tiny raccoon whispers into her mother’s ear in Germany

Photograph: Jan Piecha

Easy fellas – Hajime

Three polar bears on ice with the one in the middle standing

Hajime is the term used by the referee in Judo to invite opponents to start fighting. Here, the standing polar bear appears to adopt the gesture to prepare the other bears to fight (Arctic wildlife refuge, Alaska)

Photograph: Philippe Ricordel

Hide and seek

Cheetah hiding behind a tree with a Topi in the background

We were on safari in Kenya and saw this beautiful female cheetah looking for a mate. A group of topi were also keeping a close eye her as she left messages for a potential partner on various trees. This shot makes me think the cheetah is about to shout: ‘Ready or not, here I come!’

Photograph: Leslie Mcleod

The contemplative chimpanzee

Chimpanzee scratches his chin in jungle

This was shot in the jungles of Uganda when following a group of about 50 chimpanzees. They were clearly thinking how close chimpanzees are to humans

Photograph: Arvind Mohandas

Mafia boss

Flying squirrel in a tree sucking on small twig

This flying squirrel in Hokkaido, Japan, looked as if he was sucking a cigar, like a mafia boss

Photograph: Takashi Kubo

All via (& a few more)

[anotherfanaccount]

Jawan again. Spoilers included.

I know I know. Got sick and all this useless scrolling through the tl is just adding more thoughts. Why do I have so much thought regarding a movie. I hate my brain sometimes.

So I think it's safe to say this movie won't win awards. Maybe for VFX or stuff like that. Again random acts keep winning stuff these days in India so who knows.

But I wanna talk about srk specifically. He was the main actor here even with plenty of characters having their own arc but you saw srk the actor shine through.

Now I'm no expert but his Vikram Rathore before memory loss, after memory loss and again regaining memory was absolutely perfect.

Because you see in first phase, he's this confident and brave man who loves his wife and has a band of soldiers that would die for each other. Come in second phase, right in the beginning, forget about medical accuracies, he has no memory but goes feral over the goons. And drops his weapons in confusion right after and asks who is he? I was sold right here actually. And we don't see him until the interval. He comes in with a goal, to save his son, a son he has no memory about but is he a man who avoids responsibility. No sir. He comes and straight up tells his son, that I don't really have feelings for you because you see convenient memory loss. But you don't hate him, neither does Azad.

Also he has acquired a different swag while in the village all these years. And you can't tell me that he's not high most of the time. Because he's sorta dazed always, and my theory is that he might have not recovered entirely, maybe there's just dreams or phantom pain that's way too painful for him and thus the constant cigar. Adds another swag entirely though.

So when he recovers his memory, you see the actor in his finest, the eyes, they do everything. Split seconds, and he remembers bit by bit. Imagine getting back memories of about 3-4 decades and it's tragic at best. The final nail, Aishwarya calling him, and he loses it. All that pain comes out in a raging howl. Oh boy. There, the movie actually ended there for me.

It's amazing how a secondary character played by the same actor can overshadow the main lead. I love looking at actors playing double roles honestly. It's fun trying to see when they'll break.

[xf-regents]

OPEN 0/08

Between all of the talk of diamonds and rubies and well-made matches and duty and responsibility, Patrick longed for nothing more than to be back in the thick African brushlands hunting lions or the mangrove swamps of India stalking Bengal tigers with a crew of other sportsman. There, he wasn't Mr.Byrne, an Irishman in need of a wife to spend his money and produce the heirs he knew his family needed, but simply Pat, a man no different than the others beside the fearlessness he displayed in the face of all nature had to throw at him.

Now, he felt nothing but out of place as he was fitted for yet another waistcoat at his aunt and uncle's insistence, his lips drawn into a thin line as he watched the other members of the ton whisper back and forth to each other.

"I need a drink," he said, mostly to himself, "and a cigar."

[mangoshorthand]

Arrow of Time: Chapter 5 [Five Hargreeves/ F Reader]

(Hard Feelings Part 5)

SUMMARY: When the mother of all teenage tantrums causes time itself to fracture, Five has to travel back to 1831 to repair the damage. But will he be able to cope with what he finds there?

Chapter 6 >> << Back to Chapter 4

A new face and and old one.

Chapter 5: Sir Lewis Danforth

As always after the ladies withdraw, the men stay at the dining table to enjoy a drink. It’s a particularly unusual dining room, and the owner of the house at Lafayette Place does as much as possible to show it off to his guests, although they almost always leave it feeling slightly bemused.

The room is dominated by an immense crystal chandelier overhanging the dining table. It hangs by brass chains from a gold-leafed peacock in flight affixed to the ceiling. The body of the immense light-fixture takes the form of a lotus flower in full bloom off which sparkling cut-crystal festoons hang, catching the light attractively.

The rest of the room is equally striking in a way that, if not quite offensive to the eye, is at least highly bewildering: the jade-colored velvet curtains, (held back by gilded snakes wrapped around them), the painted walls adorned with marble pilasters and arched alcoves…it’s as if somebody who once heard the interior of the taj mahal inaccurately described decided to try recreating it in 1830’s Manhattan.

At the head of the long dining table, Sir Lewis Danforth sits splayed in the high-backed mahogany chair, a cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. Rather like his dining room, Sir Lewis has a look of opulent anatopism about him. Unknowingly, he is around thirty years ahead of his time in wearing a smoking jacket, but his descendants would be unlikely to choose a silk Sherwani to serve as one. His broad, slightly flabby face is currently ruddy with the drink, and he laughs along amiably enough with the other men.

Mr Wilson, a mousy lawyer at the other end of the table, (largely invited for the sake of his much more fashionable wife), ventures a compliment:

“I admired the food today. Most unusual. Quite the culinary experience.”

Sir Lewis smiled with satisfaction. It seemed Wilson had his uses after all. He was desperate to show off a particularly unusual acquisition and Wilson had given him the perfect opening to do so.

“I have not visited the Indian subcontinent myself,” continued Wilson, “but my good friend, Sir Henry Lytton has, and the food we sampled today seemed quite authentic to the flavors he described. Do you keep a Hindoostanne cook?”

“Lord no,” Sir Lewis chortled, “though not for lack of trying. Lady Anne won’t have anybody browner than a pail of milk on the household staff. She nurses unfortunate prejudices, I'm sorry to say.” he swilled down another swallow of liquor, cleared his throat and continued, “No, I had quite the remarkable little find. Ring the bell for me, won’t you, Smyth?”

The visitor at the other end of the table crossed to the bells to summon a servant. When the footman arrived, he was instructed to fetch the cook.

“Now just you wait here, gentleman, and tell me what you think of my special cook. Spent a year on the subcontinent at nineteen years old: India, Ceylon, Bengal and came back with capital knowledge of curries, spice blends, oriental herbs: all you could want.”

“Remarkable. His name, Sir Lewis?” asked Smyth, retaking his seat at the table.

Another chortle rumbled from Danforth as if traveling up his body from his toes, wobbling in his belly before bubbling out of his mouth.

“ Her name, Smyth.”

“A woman?”

“Precisely! And that’s the best part- she commands less of a wage than a man and she provides other… compensations , if you take my meaning.”

Other men around the table joined him in his lascivious chuckle.

“I’ve had her for nearly a year now and I’m perfectly satisfied with her. Hargreeves, she’s called: Mrs Hargreeves. No relation, I hope,” he looks laughingly at one of his guests and then tilts his head as if suddenly struck by his appearance:

“That’s a curious eye-piece you have there, Reginald. A single spectacle?”

“It's called a monocle,” said Hargreeves, shortly, adjusting it slightly, "my own design.”

“And an excellent piece it is too,” said Sir Lewis, “I say, you’ve visited the subcontinent: what do you think of my Mrs Hargreeves’ work?”

“Quite authentic,” he said, simply, “I should have guessed she wasn’t a native but she is, nevertheless, extremely capable.”

To go upstairs to the dining room, it's necessary to wash and change into a clean apron and cap. Why you couldn’t simply take off the apron was still a mystery to you. So many social conventions seemed bizarre, but blending in and keeping in your employers’ good graces was a matter of necessity. Your wages provided you with what felt like your only chance of getting home. Posing as the wife of a missing and presumed dead husband had been your only claim to respectability in this world.Sir Lewis found you on the street one night and assumed you were a prostitute. By then, you had managed to scrape enough money together to buy a cheap dress but not enough to afford room and board any longer.

After you’d refused his offer of payment for your ‘company’, he’d taken pity on you and offered you a meal. From there, conversation had flowed; your tale of woe had appealed to romantic ideas he had held as a very young man and your way of conducting yourself gave a ring of truth to what you told him.

He also mentioned in passing his interest in the Indian subcontinent and you’d leapt upon the commonality: describing the dishes you enjoyed cooking at home and what you knew of the geographical and cultural influences on each region’s cuisine, embellishing your knowledge with well-placed inventions. He’d been easily impressed: it soon became clear that he actually knew very little about the area. 

Lady Danforth, however, had been less easy to impress. Although living in New York, she ran the household as if she still lived in England, underlining Sir Lewis’s aristocratic roots as much as possible as an attempted claim to prominence in this alien world. 

You knew your presence was a constant annoyance to her. Although the domestic arrangements were her domain, Sir Lewis had imposed you upon her, insisting that she hire you after he had sampled a simple curry you cooked at his request. You’d tried to ingratiate yourself with her but with no luck. You could hardly blame her: like most women of this era, she accepted her husband’s dalliances as a matter of course. She could have probably turned a blind eye were he pursuing a buxom young maidservant, but to have him hankering after a middle-aged cook only a year or two younger than herself was an insult she couldn’t be expected to ignore.

The injustice of this rankles: while you've successfully avoided Lewis's sexual overtures, the entire world (including himself) behaves as if you're actually sleeping together. 

The powerlessness is (and has long been) excruciating. For the first few days, you'd expected Five every moment, only leaving the vicinity of alley you arrived in briefly to find the site where the academy buildings would stand, several decades from now. You’d asked shopkeepers to convey a message to any frantic man who arrived but soon necessity had driven you to find this work. It wasn’t the nearest to where you arrived but trying to alert Five to your whereabouts cost money. Five knew what Viktor had done in Dallas when in a similar situation and trying to trace his family. Surely he’d check the newspapers?

That he’d do everything in his power to come was certain. That he hadn’t come yet was your major worry. You missed them both with intensity that had not waned over the months. Thanks to Sir Lewis’s favor, you were treated as an upper servant and this meant having your own small room in the basement servants’ quarters. Although you were suspicious of his reasons for this maneuver, (the hope of a private spot in which to visit you after dark), you hadn’t resisted it: the seclusion of your bedroom allowed you the space you needed to cry yourself to sleep  virtually every night. Aoife’s smile and the memory of Five’s caresses were a toxic sustenance in your lonely existence: they formed the anchor to your real life. Too bad if that anchor’s prongs dragged and dug in your gut as if searching for purchase in a too-soft seabed.

Standing outside the drawing room now, listening to their manly, drink-addled chuckles, you take a deep breath and knock.

“Come.”

You open the door, advance a little way into the room and bob a curtsey to the gentlemen still around the table.

“Come in, Mrs Hargreeves. Mr Wilson here was just complimenting our good table.”

“Thank you, sir.” you nod demurely first at Sir Lewis and then at Mr Wilson.

“Very impressive indeed.” said one of the guests in another, clipped British accent. “Under whom did you study?”

The face of the man makes your stomach drop. You’ve seen that face, though older, in portraits and photographs around the Academy. The monocle firmly in place, the mustache, the goatee. Hair fuller and darker than you’d ever seen it pictured. As if to confirm your impossible identification, Sir Lewis says,

“Oh Reginald, you’ve and your odd ‘monocle’ seem to have scared my Mrs Hargreeves. I hope you don’t do the same to your own Mrs Hargreeves?”

He puts a flabby arm around your waist and slaps your hip bracingly and he chortles, pulling you a little closer towards him. As you regain your balance, you answer the alien in a skinsuit who is your father-in-law, for now pushing aside the fact that he’s appearing here nearly one hundred years earlier than any of his children estimated.

“Um…nobody in particular. I traveled and picked up what I could from local women…sir.”

Reginald eyed you with what your paranoid mind was convinced was suspicion as Sir Lewis began to rub firm circles into your hip. You extricated yourself smartly but politely to stand beside the intricately-carved mantle. He chuckled low in his throat. This, in his eyes, was you ‘playing hard to get’.

“You have talent,” Sir Reginald stated, taking a sip of his drink.

“You most certainly do,” concurred another guest.

“But this is a most extraordinary story,” Hargreeves said, speaking over him, “under what circumstances does a nineteen-year-old born and bred American female have the opportunity to explore the Indian subcontinent?”

“Extraordinary circumstances, sir,” you smile, unable to keep the nervous laugh out of your voice. Sir Lewis joins you, chuckling indulgently.

How to tell him or Hargreeves that your knowledge actually comes from cookbooks, youtube and living in a multicultural future? When it becomes clear that this won’t satisfy him, you tell the already-concocted lie:

“My father worked for a spice trader. When my mother died, he sent for me and I spent a year with him until he could secure a position in New York.”

“Hm.” by his tone, you can’t tell whether the sound expresses approval or doubt.

You bob another curtsey and cast a look at Sir Lewis in a silent appeal to be excused.

He nodded, mustache twitching with his grin.

“Thank you, Mrs Hargreeves. You may go.”

The other servants are starting to talk.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that you were strange, made the servants quarters smell of pervasive, unfamiliar spices and seemingly came out of nowhere, you’re also clearly having an immoral relationship with the master. That private bedroom, those evening visits to his study. (“We might not have much schooling”, said the ladies’ maid to the housemaid, “but we weren’t born yesterday”)

When the butler stumps his way ill-naturedly back into the kitchen, he looks to you with gruff annoyance.

“We ought to give you your own bell. Master wants you in his study again.”

You try to conceal a sigh, marking the page in your book.

“Thank you, Mr Hill.”

“Women of your age should know better than to read novels, Mrs Hargreeves. It’ll give you funny ideas.”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He doesn’t return your smile.

You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help but like Sir Lewis Danforth. It’s like being pursued by a horny old bulldog with a penchant for belly rubs. He always accepts your rebuffs with a good grace, perhaps even happier than if you’d given in. Yes, he can get a little handsy, but the thrill of the chase is the only thrill he really wants, even if he can’t admit that to himself. If only all sex-pests were as harmless. You’d learned quickly that 21st century feminist ideals were virtually useless here. It wasn’t a pleasant discovery but it had been a realization that helped you play the part you needed to play. It was no worse than keeping a smile on your face while being talked over in a sales meeting. 

“You’re quite the saucy little vixen, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry sir?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, woman,” he said, waving an admonitory finger in your direction, eyes twinkling, “sit down, have a brandy.”

Before you arrived, you’d known little about this period of history, but it hadn’t taken you too long to realize that a sixty-five-year-old knight drinking in his study with his cook was not considered appropriate. These interviews probably aren’t wise but these times with Sir Lewis offer a rare opportunity to be yourself. This, you know, is why he thinks he has a chance of late-night rendezvous in your bedroom but it’s hard to let go of a small source of fun. He’s one of the few people who’s kind to you in this new life and, even more unusually, honest about his intentions.

Now, he wears a silk turban, a nightshirt and pajama pants: in this, like his improvised smoking jacket, he is an early-adopter. In all things, he takes his inspiration from India…or from the strange simulacra of vaguely eastern ideas he’s invented in his imagination. In your time, his cultural appropriation would be enough to get him canceled several times over: in his own time, he’s considered an eccentric sophisticate.

 “So,” he says, handing you a glass and raising his to you, “it wasn’t enough for you to bewitch me, you’ve bewitched Sir Reginald Hargreeves too. Isn’t one man enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, letting your guard down,

“My husband is more than enough.”

He harumphs good-naturedly.

“Admirable sentiment, I’m sure. It’s in woman’s nature to be constant and it’s quite to your credit that your feelings are so loyal. But, if your husband lives, (and, for your sake, I hope he does), I can assure you he won’t have such fine feelings. He’ll be taking every opportunity to enter into amorous congress with a game lass. It’s quite normal for a red-blooded fellow. I'm afraid we can’t help ourselves.”

“We’ll agree to disagree there,” you say, swilling the brandy around your glass.

“Hmph. Well, he stumbled upon a gem when he snagged you as his bride. Damn, him. To his good health and safe return.”

He raises his glass in grudging tribute to Five before continuing.

“As I was saying, Sir Reginald has become an unlikely ally to me, even as he tries to court you himself.”

“You’ll need more than Sir Reginald Hargreeves on your side, Lewis. And neither of you will be courting me.”

“That’s the spirit I like,” he rumbled, smiling at your informal use of his Christian name, “but I’ve broken many a wilder mare than you, believe me. But that’s by the by: humor me and take a look at this.”

You’re unsure you believe that he’s broken any ‘wild mares’ in his time, but you take the piece of paper he offers you without comment. He ensures he brushes your hand with his as he transfers it to you.

It was a richly printed invitation inviting him to a party at Reginald Hargreeves' house in only a few days. At the bottom, in a neat, compact hand was clearly a handwritten addition: 

Bring that intriguing cook of yours and tell her I'd like to claim her hand in the French waltz.

You look back up at him, a creeping sensation in your stomach. Because you can think of nothing else to say for the moment, you say:

“I don’t know the waltz.”

“I’ll teach you!” he said, clearly overjoyed at the idea of putting his hands on you.

You stare down at the invitation, taking a rather large swallow of brandy in order to give yourself time to think. You knew that trusting Reginald Hargreeves, especially when it came to maintaining timelines, was simply not an option. It was imperative that he learn nothing about who you are and why you’re here. You should refuse, you should stay as far away from him as possible…

But…

If Five’s anywhere in this time, he will sure as hell be paying close attention to anything his father does. Your other efforts have done nothing so far…so why not try a different approach?

“What about Lady Danforth?”

“That’s the best part, my dear. Staying with her niece. She won’t be home until the following afternoon. What Annie doesn’t know won’t hurt her, by God.  And to stop tongues a-wagging, I’ll introduce you as my cousin.”

He smiles proudly at his own ingenuity.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Don’t concern yourself, my dear. I know you ladies can be very particular in matters of dress but will you allow me to select something suitable?”

You hesitate slightly. Knowing Sir Lewis, you’ll probably be turning up to this thing in the 19th century equivalent of stockings, suspenders and titty tassels.

“As long as you promise to keep it decent,” you say, warningly.

“Upon my honor,” he said, raising his right palm as if swearing on a bible, “it’s what’s underneath that counts, eh?”

You sigh again and down the rest of your brandy in one: sealing your decision.

“Then sure. I’ll go.”

After a lesson in the French waltz in which you had  to readjust Sir Lewis’s hands several times, you make your way stealthily back to the servants’ quarters. As always, he’d signed off your private audience with him with a hearty: ‘May I come to you tonight, my dear?’ which you, as always, denied him. Expecting nothing else, he’d waved you off genially.  

As you avoid the creaky floorboards outside Lady Danforth’s sitting room, you wish heartily that you could blink back to your room. Just as you think you’ve gotten away with it, her cold voice issues from within. 

“Mrs Hargreeves?”

You wince and turn around, reluctantly entering the sitting room and bobbing a curtsey to the mistress of the household.

“Yes, Lady Danforth?”

You try to look innocent as she surveys you suspiciously from under her frilled cap. She’s a beautiful woman: what people of this time would call ‘handsome’. About fifteen years younger than Sir Lewis and five years older than you. Her long nose and hard expression added to her formidable demeanor. Her hair is an attractive graying blonde and her eyes a shrewd hazel.

“What are you doing in this part of the house?”

“I was summoned to the master’s study,” you say. Then, to try and ingratiate yourself while forming an alibi, “he was requesting some dishes for your absence next week but I suggested to him that they should be subject to your approval, given that you know the household matters best.”

“You presumed to tell Sir Lewis what was and wasn’t his jurisdiction in his own house?”

“No ma’am.” you say, having accidentally dug yourself further into her bad graces. The old-timey language is easy, the body language is easy, but your understanding of this era’s social dynamics is still constantly wavering. It seems like you can barely breathe without mortally offending someone.

“You were rather a long time,” she says, delicately, “for one discussing meals.”

You waver slightly, needing to come up with a convincing lie on the spot,

“Sorry ma’am. Sir Lewis had questions about my time in Bombay.”

She stares at you in silence for a while, sitting perfectly upright on the sofa, hands and feet primly together. You wet your lips briefly. In the last year, you’ve had to lie constantly; the creativity gets easier but holding your nerve never does.

When she speaks again, she moves her hand to stroke a finger gently across the arm of the damask sofa.

“Do you have children, Mrs Hargreeves.”

“Yes Ma’am. One daughter.”

Lady Danforth nodded contemplatively, “I have a daughter too. Married just over a year ago to a Baronet in England.”

You nod, smiling unsurely, “All the servants speak fondly of Miss Catherine.”

“Hm,” she said, tilting her head in order to look down her nose at you, “my daughter had a housekeeper. A widow, Mrs Fredericks. Or not a widow, as it turned out. She was dismissed recently. It was discovered that she was, in fact, still Miss Fredericks, although she had a grown son. Not only this, she had been stealing from her employer.”

“Oh.” you say, dumbly.

“Can you produce a marriage certificate, Mrs Hargreeves?”

Shit.

“No ma’am. My husband had it about him when he went missing.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Hargreeves. How inconvenient for a woman in your position.”

“Yes,” you all but whisper.

“But surely church records are available?”

“Um…no.”

She tilts her head in mock confusion and you gabble out the latest twist in a long and convoluted series of lies.

“The church we were married in burned down. The marriage records were lost with it.”

“Another inconvenience,” she says, raising her eyebrows, enjoying the seconds she leaves you hanging, “very well, you may go.”

You waver for a second, “ma’am?”

“You may go.” she repeats.

It’s almost second nature to curtsey now as you leave the room.

 You don’t fall asleep for a long time that night. Your family seems closer than ever tonight, just tantalizingly out of reach. Your complex, intelligent and determined little girl and your Russian nesting-doll of a husband. The adult with a septuagenarian within and, at the deepest level of his precious heart, a scared, neglected little boy.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88, @nevillescomslut

On to Chapter 6 >> Masterpost

[aboardthescheherazade]

Inspired by @professorcalculusstanaccount's timeline posts, it's Roberto Rastapopoulos through the years! No little Greek boy don't grow up to be a massive shithead--

Rasta is a very difficult character to understand in canon, because so much of his lore is left unknown to the viewer. However, there were little bits and pieces, some in Herge's tertiary studio notes; over time I've wrung some water from that stone, and put together this timeline in my head. I went with a more condensed range than ProfCal (i.e. pre-canon up to canon, rather than into post-canon), since Rob does technically "die"/disappear by the end of the (finished) comics.

Headcanons and details under the cut:

According to speculative official notes, he was born in the 1890s in Leros. It's a beautiful island but also one with a turbulent history, as when little Roberto was born, that part of Greece was under control by the Ottoman Empire. His father was a sponge diver, which was a very viable career at the time. (Decades later, the industry would be ruined when the area's sea sponges were over-harvested by bigger diving operations.) His mother is basically unknown...many official outlets say Rastapopoulos is part American, so I imagine his mother was of Greek-American heritage who either met his father abroad or in America.

There were two real-world figures who influenced my timeline: Aristote Onassis and Aleister Crowley. Onassis was one of Herge's later inspirations when writing Rastapopoulos, and for good reason; much like Rastapopoulos's own immoral dealings, Onassis indiscriminately sold warships during WWII and can easily be considered an arms dealer who profited off of human atrocities. On the other hand, Aleister Crowley was my own connection. All the pseudo-Egyptian mysticism in Cigars of the Pharaoh and the Kih-Oskh Brotherhood seems to be a reference to the very real trend in the early 20th Century where the upper crust of western society became fascinated with esoteric beliefs. (Seances and the Ouija Board were also created during this era.) Crowley rose in infamy during this time, too, as a spoiled debutante who spent his inheritance on journeys through the MENA region to perform rituals and "adapt" Eastern religions for his own belief system. With Rastapopoulos making up an entire pharaoh and emblem for his secret trafficking club, it reminded me very much of Crowley's own endeavours, and the commodification of MENA cultures and iconography during this era.

Child (1897) - Canonically, he has three brothers and two sisters, so l envisioned him as the middle child amidst all that. Little Roberto was spoiled when he was little, but when his youngest brother was born, it left Roberto feeling like the attention had been stolen from him.

15 (1906)- The other siblings hoped Roberto would be just as enthusiastic as they were about the family diving business, but alas, he'd always been more interested in reading prose and classical plays. His favourite play is Gounod's Faust. Some days, he daydreams about what a deal with the devil could get him, thinking he'd be able to outsmart the devil and win his riches for free. Roberto was at a rebellious point in his life, and sadly, he'd come to be ashamed of his background, deciding sponge diving was "peasant work" and that he'd rather tell others he was British or American. Eventually, it became easier for the whole family to just send him to a boarding school. Deep down, Roberto's parents hoped he might become an actor, a writer, or some sort of scholar...but the night before he left, Roberto secretly took down his whole family's banking information.

20s (1910s) - Roberto is now in his "Aleister Crowley's world tour" phase. He throws around mysteriously large quantities of money, often putting it into investments, and taking many journeys through Egypt and India. (I also like to imagine he met the Fakir and Colonel Fuad around this time; maybe Zloty too). Rastapopoulos is an insufferable, preening dandy at this time, trying to carve out his own place among the societal elite. His Greek identity is only flaunted as a way to make him seem more "exotic" to strangers. He tries not to think about the bank accounts he's leeching from.

30s (1920s) - Several of his investments actually flourished. His shares in Arab-Air and Flor Fina yield enough profit to let him buy out the companies, and his decadence only increases as he reaps even more profits. With extra money going around, Rastapopoulos finally decides to foray into the movie industry...as a movie producer. His passion for theatre never died, and if he can't become an actor himself, then why not produce the kinds of stories he wanted to be in? By the time the Great Depression hits, Rastapopoulos has amassed more than enough wealth to stay afloat...and the drug ring he's started with a few good friends sure helps, too. He's more concerned with holding onto every millimetre of his receding hairline.

40s (canon) - By all means, Rastapopoulos could have disbanded the cartel and retired comfortably. Maybe he could have invested more in his own movies, and focused more on Cosmos Pictures's internal operations. And yet, he didn't. Bigger numbers are better, so Rastapopoulos kept amassing his dirty money, thinking he was too big to fall. He got messy and left behind some viable clues, which some Belgian kid happened to stumble across...

50s (1940s-early 50s)- "Roberto Rastapopoulos" may be out on bail and facing decades in prison, but "Marquis Dante di Gorgonzola" is just some mysterious financier with an offshore bank account. Some of the other societal elites recognize him, but they find the alter ego funny and play along; "Oh, here comes "the marquis"...! He's due back in Hong Kong!" He can't make money through drug trafficking anymore, he can't show his face in Hollywood, and he certainly can't go back to Greece. Unfortunately, some of his associates introduce him to a different kind of trafficking, one even more immoral, but just as lucrative... It's the climax of the Rastapopoulos family tragedy: the son of hard-working commoners has ground his family's name into dust thanks to his pursuit of power and decadence; he has now resorted to deceiving those same sorts of commoners, dooming them to unknown fates just so he can buy a boat. Later, he begins resorting to harebrained schemes and petty crime just to maintain that lifestyle. His Greek identity has long been buried in favour of a vague, exotic cultural identity meant to explain away his quirks and twitchiness.

I've long been torn on whether or not Endaddine Akass is Rastapopoulos's final form. Herge's notes do consider him surviving Flight 714 to Sydney by waking up in the tropics with some degree of amnesia...perhaps this is near Jamaica, where he'll meet Ramo Nash under a new identity. It also feels the most theatrical - Rastapopoulos is playing yet another role, and he has a grand finale planned for Tintin's murder. Additionally, the mysticism Akass totes in Alph-Art is inspired by the alternative religion fads of the 1960s-70s; Akass is evocative of some of those many cult leaders, like Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh or Father Yod.

And yet, I almost find it more fitting for Rastapopoulos to survive Flight 714 to Sydney with full amnesia. He only knows himself as some middle-aged vagrant, and he decides he just has to pick himself up, and find some odd jobs to make a living. He gives himself a new name; his family history has been wiped clean. He struggles to make ends meet, much like the family he bankrupted, though he'll never know just how ironic his life has become. The rest of the world knows Rastapopoulos as a bombastic, flashy debutante who died a pitiful death during a police standoff. Tintin feels like he saw him one last time, but it feels like a bad dream he had during a flight layover. The man who always wanted to be the biggest and best died quietly in the sea, his true fate unknown, his body forever missing.

I think that's why I find Rastapopoulos so fascinating as a character! You can either make him into Tintin's greatest scourge who fights to the death to maintain his status, or you can rip all that away and doom him to a humble existence.

[a-nobody-here]

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽Reflections☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Chapter One: The fallen night

_________________________________________ a/n: I'm very nervous about this idea, still navigating into how romance works in writing. Forgive any lingual issues, English is literally my 3rd Language. I am hoping it doesn't cause any ruckus anywhere. It's short, really. Enjoy. Warnings: None, really. Except for one of them being your usual ADHD folk :) Settings: @ M.H.15, INDIA, THE YEAR 2015. CITY OF NASIK,IN THE AUGUST MONSOONS. _________________________________________

"I quattro libri del l'architettura." he says, tapping away at something on his phone, mind unevenly focused on both sides of his task. "Under the name?" the librarian asks, passive aggressively putting his cigar out in the tray, the desk smelling like ash and smoke like it usually does. "Darshit. Darshit Sakhala."

He slides the book off the reception desk, into his hands, making his way further inside to an empty desk. Project readings and write-ups were certainly important to him, but they didn't exactly catch his muse if they weren't practical enough to be illustrated. Architecture was definitely his choice and he wasn't regretting it or anything, but he needed good company; that was better than hipsters dozing off during climatology seminars. He remembered his reckless self from high school that everyone wanted to be. So many people envying him, despite his dismissive behavior. Here, he knew nobody and the urge to be wanted was growing inside. He didn't know how quickly it would become so lonely after leaving Rajkot. He came here all the way, only to find a lazy university in the middle of Indore.

The only way he put his mind off from all this was music. Music, that made his heart beat so loud, he couldn't hear his thoughts. He kept reading but his mind was somewhere way off the lane. People came, read, wandered, some even made out, and time went on all the same, as they left too. The place was now emptier, the lights were dimmed, it was later in the night; now the silence was louder. He was quite bothered with the grim silence without the usual sounds he would subconsciously pay any heed to; the aircon, clattering boots, flipping pages. He did what anybody would have done in such a place. Plugging in his earphones, he turned the sound up, now trying to fully focus on his material. Time ticked past slower somehow, and he was, in a way glad. He didn't at all feel one bit of the bolted silence around until a very long time.

He was deaf to any sound for long, until his conscience felt the presentiment of somebody, but he refused to move. 'it might just be nobody at this time.' He though. But through the side of his eyes, he could notice movement. The figure passed him by, sitting opposite to him, right across the table. The person definitely carried a lot along, from the loud noise after they sat down. From above the book frame he could see the person setting up a mobile recorder. His eyes wandered to an empty guitar case beside the person, the guitar now being slowly tuned. Moments later, the person put the record on, sucking a slow breath in, from what Darsh could hear. On instinct, Darsh took one of his plugs off, as the person slowly began strumming into tune.

"....Tere bin, Tere bin...Tere bin, Tere bin.." 'Without you...without you...' His voice resonates against the lone silence, all Darsh did was look endlessly, and slowly every detail of the stranger came to light. Honeyed skin, eyes closed, feeling every beat, lips parched, and constellations of minute freckles scattered in parts, the metal frame of his glasses, glinting under dim lighting, short brown locks falling freely, breathing steady even throughout the song, his state; relaxed, as though there wasn't another heaven.

"Baawarey piya...laage naa jeeya, dekho mera man, jalataa diyaa.." 'Lunatic, beloved mine...living's now a chore...Look at my heart, it burns like a flame...' Hardly ever, as Darsh could notice, his earphones had already run out of power, but there was indeed, no reason he would need them anymore. "Jeena nahi Tere bin.." 'Wouldn't want to live on, without you...' the stranger finishes, slowly turning the recorder off, opening his eyes. Brown; the type of brown poets adored, the type of brown that reduced every pride to dust, like rays surrounding an eclipse, they weren't very bright, but they were what the writers called passion. They hovered around the place, before meeting his raven ones. Darsh was unfazed, still looking, out of his mental zone, with little of his lost mind, he kept looking.

"Did I bother you, Reader?" he asks, quite out of sarcasm, some out of curiosity, rest out of mischief, amused by the young man's nerves. As a socially unstable person, Darshit's heart almost skipped a beat.

"Uhm.. well..shit. I mean.. uhm sorry. I don't do that.. usually." "I don't catch people doing that usually too, guess we have something in common." He jokes, as Darsh chuckles under his breath. "You.. Uh.. Sing. Pretty well. Like if I heard you sing on the radio, I'd wait to hear it, though I've arrived, I don't know, it's a weird compliment, maybe if you understood it..." He rambled, out of breath at the point the sudden sigh and pause having the stranger to let out a silent giggle. Darsh was indeed quite embarrassed, since these conversation things happened to him a lot, and even if he was used to it, this time it was slightly reaching him as Shyness.

"Faculty of architecture, huh?" "How'd you-" "Don't ask, I have a few friends there, and honestly, you look like the type to be from there." 'The heck's that supposed to mean..?' Darsh thought himself, but his thinking was diverted easy, to the sound of mild rain. "Tough time of year, August, I'm betting you have an umbrella." Darsh only nervously laughed to himself, as he in fact, did not, have an umbrella. "Let's see... " The stranger then, picks up the phone, little tapping here and there. "Here," Darsh flinches to the brightness of the screen. "This is the one you need, not an exact reference, but it covers most of that." "Thanks..." Though he looked like a reckless type, he was surprisingly serious about his academics, not that he wasn't reckless at all, but you know how university is. This was like a superior senior charity for him; he was impressed and grateful. "I hadn't seen you here before, since I'm here most of the time, now that I think about it... " "Yes, I am, very much here for the project, I don't like staying late nights, really. " His eye hovers to the phone screen, that lits up with the time: 11:45 AM. He knows he needs to get home, and he knows he doesn't want to, but there's really no choice. "I suppose you have to go as well... " The stranger breathes, beginning to wrap up, receiving an agreeing hum from Darsh. "Didn't quite catch your good name, Mister." "Darshit. Sakhala." "Darshit...hmm...I figure now that I know you, I'll see you around a lot.." And there was silence, but now with the sudden and with all his social ability, Darsh sucks a breath in, "And yours?" The stranger looks back to Darsh, now standing close by behind, passing a light smile. "Siddharth Bhattacharya. Just Sid. Please."

__________________________________________ ༊·˚˚

[trailhappy]

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[exploring-the-past]

The submarines; a tragic possibility of the political deep

Creator(s): Bradley, Luther Daniels, 1853-1917, artist

Date Created/Published: 1906 Nov. 1 [publication date]

Medium: 1 drawing : India ink over pencil, with scraping out on bristol board ; 39.6 x 35.6 cm. (sheet)

Summary: Depicts two iron-clad submarines, one in the form of an elephant, and the other, in the shape of a donkey. The former labeled "Republican Machine," and the latter marked "Democratic Machine," are both surmounted by the head of a politician smoking a cigar. They are stranded at the bottom of the ocean where the elephant is entangled in chains and the fallen donkey wears a "Help" sign attached to its tail. From within each submarine, a political boss with an alarmed expression, looks out through a porthole. A sign reading "The Political Deep," indicates what appears to be their final resting place.

[rhinokck]

Today’s side by side was two from Cigar City Brewing out of Tampa, FL. First up was Jai Alai India Pale Ale. Man you want a classic IPA you can’t go wrong with this. So smooth, hoppy & citrusy with a good bitter cut on the finish. Next up was Jai Alai Double IPA. A little less citrusy & more bitter start to finish than the regular Jai Alai, this one was still excellent. If you’re looking for a solid classic IPA you wouldn’t go wrong with either of these.

[theworldcigar01]

Buy Cigars Online | Best Quality Cigars | The World Cigar

The World Cigar is a premium online retailer of cigars based in Mumbai, India. They offer a wide selection of high-quality cigars from around Mumbai, providing a convenient and reliable way for cigar enthusiasts to purchase their favorite smokes online.