the proprietor of a guest house says he plays the tabla. i ask him if
he plays out anywhere, in public. no, i
only play for god. probably doesn’t tweet either.
the night lit loggias
of bundi cornea of aravalli, sockets of worms, apertures onto the days
when junglī suar wandered protected on a greener, less regulated, and
three-dimensionally more vicious earth.
the 5-hour bus from jaipur to bundi in its 49 numbered seats holds 71
passengers, 8 on top, 9 goats, obese sacs of produce heaped mercilessly in the
aisles, 3 employees (driver, bus manager, ticket operator), no washroom or a/c –
it’s midday and 34°. deluxe, the
agent had told me. my body doesn’t fit anywhere, only hindi’s spoken, no shocks
on this bitch and the road’s all hole ... i’m a conscious turd flushed onto the
laughing dirt when the receptacle of hadoti finally welcomes.
i had hardly believed him.
the celebrations, festivities, pan-coloured noise, parades occur multiple times daily. gods, death, marriage, birth (and what’s the bloody difference?). some ridiculous-looking male dressed in a silver suit and flowers is plunked on a horse that’s so weighted in decoration how can no one laugh or protest (where’s friedrich when you need him ... maybe b. tarr can direct the bundi horse)? a few dudes beat relentlessly on big drums for 30 minutes before the procession – which includes the requisite 20 following females and blaring tuktuk – begins to jolt and belch its way eastward. it’s all religion and it’s all the time.
a bordeaux man – almost comically friendly, pulls up a small stool to
sit and chat to me, misses the stool falling on the floor (feel like i’m in a chaplin
skit) – asks me how long the flight is home. about 15 hours i say. i
thought it wouldn’t be much longer than paris he says – isn’t there a way you can just zip over the
arctic?
in my homeland i never say i’m a writer. in that world of privilege as
language and language as privilege such a designation is too pretentious,
wearied, photocopied, easy, meaningless ... lumping me with gangling cheese
strings of humans i have no affinity with, embarrassments to language, no-cost
writing, bud lights of Word. but here i use it as an efficient conversation-ending
explanation for why i don’t do tourist things but sit stupidly around staring into
space like an incarnation of the god Vapid. everyone (europeans, indians) seems
satisfied, asks no further questions.
the second night in rajasthan i ascend to the rooftop terrace of my
guesthouse and a young french couple is dimly fucking on a chair. is clearing
my throat sufficient international language? should i pull up a chair and watch,
yank my dick out and cum on their faces? i go to a table, pull out my notebook
and begin writing.
