There’s no such thing as a road in India…

There is no such thing as a road in india, just a non specific blending of gravel, cow pasture, Runyon Canyon dog run, vegetable compost, bio-mass, palpable carbon monoxide, bad karma, worse driving, white knuckles, loose bowels, single scooters sporting extended families of 5 generations, cultivated fields of attention deficit disorder fronted by

FIFA freaks, Moses, wannabe micro-rajas, eucalyptus trees, fanta bottles, bollywood soundtracks, adverts for cellphone providers, colloidial weaponized amoebic dysentery posing as drinking water (please check the seal!!!), foot long flying beetles, over employed loin clothed blacksmiths magicking Hyundai truck parts out of imagination, humidity, bicycle chains and cast off 3G cell phones, goats with opposable thumbs, God Father Beer, naked infants in ponds of grey dust, a doppleganger of my third grade teacher in tibetan drag watching

Lhasa Chess masters forced to play Chinese checkers with the fossilized dung of sacred rats, mutant weeds secreting the cure for the common cold (but not without causing violent hiccups), bald tires, a single BMW (driven by Krishna), consensual hallucinations of better days to come, a ship wrecked crew of a five score Dutch missionaries thwarted by pirates and reincarnated as blue bottle flies harassing the Wandering Jew, smoldering tent cities at the base of the most beautiful mountain crowned by lightning and a mantle of monsoon viewed from

10 feet of actual asphalt in 200 kilometers, a counterfeit twenty rupee note, a scratched bootleg mandarin hip hop cd, Thursday’s child, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s forgotten mantras, pumas, leopards, migrating Egyptian Amon housecats that have been homeless for 2 thousand years, Apoo’s questionable undergarments, 3 blind mice, 4 hour traffic jams at toll booths charging 7 cents manned by well meaning 10 year olds holding turnstiles of twine 20 yards long, housing projects built of sand and spit by pierced nose mothers in spotless saris balancing 25 home made bricks on their heads rubbing elbows with

Lepers, piss poor comprehension hidden by knowing smiles, curry ice cream that would kill you if it touched the tip of your nose, entrepreneurial shoe shine boys harvesting yak shit to throw on your man’s new italian trekking boots, broken life time vows, a 5 carat diamond scratched by bad breath, the fashion institute of Chamundi echoing

the strange harmony of the 12 million car horns that caused global warming, the true intent of the historical Buddha’s 3rd turning of the wheel of dharma ( it literally was figurative by definition), an almond, Thich Naht Han’s mother of a cloud turned into packets of brown sugar, the complete and utter absence of Starbucks’ green tea lattes, ice that could never cool your drink, obsessive compulsive dousing with anti-bacterial hand cleaner to the rhythm of so much personal service that you can no longer deny the obvious and discomfiting fact that to serve is to lead and you’re being led by

49 tantrik dancers practicing for Kundun’s birthday party on the outdoor basketball court along the short cut to Namgyal Monastery, the 17th Karmapa’s cast off shades, boys holding hands, gut saving Ci-Pro that could never cure the culture shock of

a billion people that don’t have it as good as you with 2 billion more without a prayer in direct competition squatting on top of them, flip flops when you oughta be wearing wellies, saltpetre, guaranteed power failure, red corded blessings tied on the wrists of dharma friends, the western air command, the yol cantonment, a Palumpur tea plantation, Vulture’s Peak in the shadow of Pop’s Picnic Spot during a rain storm and an idle black bear framed by a backdrop of sleeping, walking, crapping, chewing, traffic jamming holy cows.

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