Bhag bhag DK Bose DK Bose

Sitting at the Domestic Airport in Bombay waiting for my flight to take off to take me to the capital for THE monsoon wedding and realizing I haven't blogged in a while. Whattodo, we are lazy like this only? Enjoying free Wifi in India! Nandita Das is telling me to save the trees from the TV. Gulamnabi Azad is lamenting the increased number of homosexuals in India [sic?]. DK Bose's heavy guitar riffs are blasting through my headphones. This is beautiful. This is what heaven would be like if the Surrealists all went up there and partied till the Sun went down again. Does the Sun ever set in heaven, or does it ever rise?

There is an insanely crazy number of Bangalis in the Indian film industry. A jamboree of Roys and Guhas and Sens. Why the fuck am I writing this? It's painful to go on when you have nothing to say. Doping athletes - South Indian maidens with amazing legs are crying on TV. They all wear the neon blue of the Indian Cricket Team now. Not aesthetically pleasing, if you will. Fuck, I need to shave. I wish I had had the time. Not for beautification reasons. It's so fuckin hot out here that having any kind of facial hair is not an option. I hear Delhi is hotter. Can it get any hotter? I sound like an ABCD now but it's all good. With a little patience, we shall endure and persevere. I realized this the other day when I was sandwiched between two old men talking about the good ol' simple days of 60's Bombay, sweating in my black t-shirt in Saturday evening Bombay traffic. There was no space to wipe the sweat off. There was no space to even shift. But it was beautiful. We all just need a li'l patience. And that applies to the industry as well, the patience I mean.

FTII was great. Green and great, though I hear from the locals it is a green mental prison of sorts. One of those places that seduces you to stay longer than you should and wastes the best years of your life. The trick I hear is frequent work related trips to Bombay. It's only 3.5 hours by comfortable AC Volvo buses. The Western Fuckin' Ghats. Very green, very ominous, especially in the fog of elevated Maharashtra. Lots of tunnels, lots of poetry, delving into darkness and emerging from it, stronger, higher, slower.

Mama's Brown Rug

 The little feather dust

Slow dance around us

Backlit by a bleach blonde sun

As she holds me like a buttered bun.

Ice-cream from the same waffle cone.

Now and then she lets out a li’l moan

As I lick off some drippin’ caramel –

“Mama’s gonna kill me. Effin’ hell!”

“Relax, the rug is brown and ornate.”

“But she really uses it to meditate.”

I see a trickle from her lower lip

An’ my tongue starts out on the suga’ trip.

But she pushes my tongue away

As if it has been leaking all day

Here on her Mama’s brown rug

And what can I do but shrug.

She holds her big tummy,

Her eyes scared of mummy

And she says, “I’m really very full.

And shouldn’t you be at school?”

“Baby, do you want ice-cream tonight?”
I ask though I know we’re havin’ a fight.

“Lyin’ here on Mama’s rug I’m getting fat”

I look at her an’ say “I wouldn’t say that.”

“But Mama says I run too slow.”

Her Mama’s being a big fat hoe

But all I say is “She has no clue.

If you ask me, that’s so not true.”

She smiles and takes my spoon

But cries “Oh! It’s almost noon.

Mama’ll soon be back from school.

This rug is a hundred percent wool!”

So I kiss her very quickly on her sticky lips

As I hold her by her enormous broad hips.

And jump out Mama’s grande French window,

Runnin’ to school faster than she can swallow.