Friend’s wedding in Goa meant that the world witnessed several versions of DK (Drunk as fak Kro). Some very random, random moments – I swear I saw a white cat and a brown dog outside one of the rooms. Just chilling together, like total buddies and all. And someone whispered “I am married” into my ear and walked away and I was like whodafuk. And then I remember falling on my bed and passing out in my chaddis and also remembering that the room cleaning people barge into rooms if no one answers the doorbell. They would have found a fat hairy bastard with his speedos on. Spread diagonally across the bed. Over the sheets.
And I also remember shaking the booty with aunties and uncles and screaming “thepla” and “chhunda” and “kem cho” to this one gujju couple. Over and over again. And this one guy saying “Bro its all cool bro. One more shot bro” and handing me the Tequilla bottle and I remember thinking, “Dude this shit fucks you up. Dont do it” and I also remember thinking “Aye fuck that voice yaar. Go ahead, nothing will happen”.
I really really thought I had grown out of this shit. Evidently, I have not.
Anyway, it was fun and it was a really chilled out affair. I quite liked it cause you could more or less wear whatever you wanted and there were hardly any rituals and people were just chilling all over the place.
I want my words to be real, to describe and portray something true and deep and not something superficial like a magazine cover. I would want my words to accurately describe the sound a fist makes when it rams into someone’s face. That dull, thud-thud noise of flesh being beaten into a pulp, of bones splintering and blood sputtering out of the nose and the mouth.
I want the words to create the smell of warm blood on the streets, that sickly sweet smell. The reader should be able to dip a finger into the quickly congealing pool of thick liquid syrupy blood. Thick paint-like blood, like what you get if you put too much of that lal powder and too little water in the teeka.
I want to take people into the “dry” latrines which pepper the streets of their cities. To show them human beings who pick up, who sweep up liquidy shit and pools of piss. Thick, black pools of shit, blood, piss and mucus. They pick it up and clean it away and their clothes and their skin stinks so you can smell them a mile away. Rancid.
But I can’t. The words, the words just run away.
Am going to go watch Eternal Sunshine again. Toodles.