The story of the torn kurta

I wish I could have named it better.

So here it goes:

Taking a cycle rikshaw from the place of temporary accommodation to place of wedding. Never been in Patna before. Interesting though the power cuts will kill you. Rocking night life but.

So said rickshaw takes us to the place and we disembark. And I hear a faint sound from the bum region which sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it. And we walk in, the shiny lights and that annoying chap with the camera. And we walk towards the newly weds with their look of completely zombiness.

And we congratulate them and walk back. When a smiling old man, pats me on the back and tells me that there is a giant hole in the kurta.  Which is where the header pic comes into play.

Smiling. Oh so fuckin funny.

And the thoughts go back in time and the vaguely familiar sound is connected to that made when cloth is torn cause your hand was on it and then you pulled it away.

Sonofabitch.

So my first reaction is to play the “Oh yeah I know, its for the ventilation” bit but no one bought it. For some strange reason.

I did contemplate tucking the bloody thing in (ok that sounded way better in my head) but that would probably have gotten even more laughs.

Anyway, as things stand, it was not as mortifying as realising the reason why those laadies were smiling at me was coz me fly was open. However, it was definitely a tad more embarrassing than the time I accidentally tried on a skirt thinking it was a pair of shorts.

It takes quite some doing to get me going on the shame train.

There was this one time when a dear friend and me decided to play “race race” right on mg road. That was fun. Of course that was when there were trees on the other side, the beautiful boulevard and those bastards had not started a frikkin environmental disaster in the name of modernisation.

And another time when there was an extremely dedicated effort to splosh someone with piss. Or rather fake piss but I don’t think he knew that.

And of course the milk incident which I thought I handled wonderfully well but some porkies disagree. When you are quenching the burning thirst by drinking milk from a milk-holding cup thing, then it is but natural that some milk shall be spilt.

Spilt milk.

Cows have got to have cool dreams. Like something tells me that those bastards smoke up on grass every other day and just let their minds float. I think a high cow would be awesome company. Giving stretched out “mooos” every now and then. Turning its head slowly and looking at me with heavy lidded eyes. Or perhaps with a real stupid grin on the face.

It has been a while since I let the sweet leaf (sorry sabbath) enter the blood stream. Feel it take a little place inside my mind. Curled up toes and the feeling of calm. Slowly passing time and the clarity of colours. And the crazy dreams. And of course the munchies.

Come with me for some time, let us talk until we die.

The stretched hands can only reach that far.

And voices can’t do what the touch of skin can.

Come with me for some time, let us talk until we die.