Indian Notebook

Gave Mira a nose piercing
Traditional Indian way just meant dirty
We found out though
Went to an old time jeweler and she said she wanted
A traditional nose piercing done in the traditional way
“You know, where the piercing is put through the acupuncture point”
Indian piercing man made a special trip
To jewelry shop to pierce foreigner’s something
He tried to stick a dirty needle hole through her ear
Mira screeches
“No! I want a nose piercing in my nose, not my ear”
So dirty piercing man fumbled about
With his dirty Indian hands
All over the dirty needle that would be stuck through
Poor Dirty Mira’s nose
(now this needle was just a regular old wire that had one end
cut at an angle to make it “sharp”)
He manipulated this home made needle
With his poop hand and rusty pliers til’
Mira said, “No way!”
And I got to pierce her nose for her
(at least Wade washes his hands she said)

Goopymop is having a ball of a day with the maid next door. It began to rain, so they both called for Mira (my lovely lady) to come out and take in the clothing that were hanging out to dry in the rain. When I showed up outside the door to help them instead of Mira, they just laughed at me and told me to go back inside. I suppose that they figured the clothes were better off wet than having a dude touch them in dude ways.

“But quirky fieldworkers- how can we ever evaluate the balance or fairness of their insights?”
-Bruce Jackson, Fieldwork

All those years I thought that I was rejecting American culture and society, I was, in actuality, playing the part of the ideal American youth. To look back at ones self from afar is the impetuous of travel.

“I wish that it had a personality; so I could make it feel bad about itself.”
-Kayla Chin, to the computer

“It takes five men to package one bag of tea,” spoke the disgusted tea-shop owner; who then jumped in to make it six.

For many years, scientist thought that the forest people of India did not eat monkeys due to their ‘humanistic’ qualities. Actually, it was because they taste bad.

“Learn the lesson of Love, ‘O cock!
-From Bankey Behari’s book Sufis, Mystics, and Yogis of India

“We are looking for India,” said the pilgrim. “Where is that?” said the Indian.

Few things in the world are as honest as a craftsman’s hands. With this day of sitting in the home of Shyam Singh I feel as if I need to learn a trade.

Dear Donald,

In Rajastan now. Desert, forts, warrior lineage, blue skies. No walks though. My lady hit me in the eye with a wrist full of bangles whilst in bed one night, and it got infected. Nursing myself in Jaisalmer. Lady is out riding camels. I am finding gladness in these solitary days. Almost feel blessed that she socked me.

Overlooking a courtyard now from a balcony of a Tibetan restauand. India men, Mussel men, and rickshaw men. Pushkarts of fruit and vendors selling silly looking clothes to silly looking tourists. Everything here is made to look real old- and much of it is. But anyways. . .

I am just keeping on. Digging up some substance out of delusion and realizing that I really do not want it any way. What would I do with substance even if I had any? Anyway, so I am just going through some motions, trying not to care about too much but keep getting a little tied up. Companions make you think, you know?

Wondering why it takes an hour to make fried rice? Oh well. . .

Your fellow Fellow,
Wade

A fevered conversation:

MIRA: One day I will be a Buddha, and only my nose ring will touch the ground.

WADE: Now you are a Buddha.

Had fever night with Mira. Both hallucinated as if on drugs. Thought that I was a prince. Kept saying, “I am the prince,” in a weird voice. Tried moving bed that Mira was sleeping on across the room. Bed has piss stains all over it. We don’t care. We played, danced in front of the window for all of India. Bedded down to meet with fever. Mira as well. Spent night attacking hard pillow and holding my head. Got bit by a floor monster (rat? cockroach?). Talked absolute nonsense with total conviction. “I am the prince.” Then Mira finally asked annoyed, “Why are you the prince?” I had no answer. I guess I was not really the prince. Snuggling with Mira and waiting for the call of morning.
Smile and giggle with Mira.

MIRA: There is poop all over everything in India (it is true).

Jodhpur:

Walking streets of old city. ”Wow, all of these buildings are blue! Maybe we are in that blue city?” Walked up a large hill, looked out, it was all blue. “Funny, I had always wanted to come here.” Sometimes stumbling onto dots on maps gets you places.
Made friends on top of the hill. More friends just kept coming from all directions. Soon, we had a gaggle of peers. They all grew up together and were like brothers. Short kid asked me if I knew anything about guns. I said that I did. So we talked of pistols and how the police in India will beat you if you get caught with one. Same story everywhere, no? He is still looking for one though. Me too. Watched sunset and full moon shine over blue city. Talked of religion, wrestling, tattoos, and movies. They invited us to eat but Mira did not want to want to. So we said goodbye.

Got lost in a maze of streets. Nighttime. Alley streets rickshaw crowded and moter bikes everywhere. All of everything pushing streets carrying capacity. We nearly get crushed between a motorcycle, a ply-board rummage stand, and a concrete pole. We made it. “Close one, no?”

“Where have all the travelers gone?”

“Away.”

“Then she [chubby naked hippy girl on dorm room bed in Mumbai] said, “Namaste,” and I wanted to punch her. What’s wrong with her?”

*Written in the Autumn of 2006

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 17, 2007