Stalin-gradschool

“That beard of yours..”

Dr. R had been inspecting the sheet of paper I had handed him for a few moments. Mycobacterium, Varicella and some of their similarly disease causing kin. Fortunately, I had managed to come clean through the tests.

He looked up suddenly.

“That beard of yours.. do you know what it is called?”

School, college and a few months here and there - I knew this type. It would be a little longer before I left the room. “Uhm, well - it’s more widely known as the French beard, doctor”, I offered.

“No. There’s another name for it.” He fell silent and looked at me with a strange smile. Doc’s upper body was bobbing up and down - he was probably the leg shaker type.

I clicked, and unclicked the pen. “Well I shall find out, then”, I assured him.

“Heard of the Bulganin? Bulganin thaadi, kettitundo?”

I showed him roughly what an elongated version of the soul patch would look like. He nodded approval.

“There was this Russian Minister, of the name Nikolai Bulganin. Him, and Nikita Khrushchev, they had come here in the late 50s or so. Of course, back then Russia and India were great pals - what with them voting for us in the UN and all. So when this guy came here, people liked his beard. And the ones that sported it - they called it a Bulganin thaadi.”

With the happy flourish of a professor who had just demonstrated how parallel rays of light, upon passing through a convex lens, converge at the focus, he took one quick glance at the document and signed the form.

“Of course, it was only later that the people realised how communism was just a load of bull, right? Okay then, all the best for your future!”