Im thinking that a bollywood actor is a cynical man. His belief in his work is dubious because he finds himself in the predicaments of outer space heroes. (say for instance neil Armstrong, Houston my pees flying all over the place). So the honest actor based on this hypothesis is a cynic who doesn’t believe in his job and the good actor given his dedication to the job is obviously stupid. But im certain that in real life this is not how the dynamic works.

4 lakh chicken laid end to end would stretch longer than the china wall. Maybe maybe not.
they would weigh more than all the protimas on dashami
and would be swifter than death by radiation

Sometimes baked with the yeast
A crop raised in the yellow
Or cracked out of shell
A daily harvest of feather and fur
Quiet at the table
unheard when the blade met the neck
gathered around it at our meals
we speak of life once in a while
that
if we are happy inside
then the stoic beast was able

rat tat tat the gypsy dream
the pink cormorant rubadub
sounded deep on a faraway hill
and plundered the night with his spear

I banged the door, and banged it again it wouldn’t shut and was off on the street to the liquor mart. Ananda and reet I dragged and they dragged me to park street where we would be free and drink from a pet bottle surreptitiously. Whiskey and rum, the concoctions prepared in the loo of birkmeyer and sipped glugged and swung on the lawns of the boys hostel to a chant from the rehearsal heard like a reconstruction from the lion king. a luscious warmth spread evenly through me, and feeling warm in cold and brave when really not that bold I could do anything. The rehearsal broke and all filed out in squares triangles and other shapes casual, formal and friendly.
We were on a mental plane where everything was flexible and elastic and rules were like clothes hanging from a line swaying wildly in a fantastic breeze. It was one kind of bliss in the self, the hyper consciousness of ancient seers. But there was no need for that butt pinching dare; im so often ashamed that im not me.

Stems roots and leaves, and now an urgent reprieve from a bent mind. To underscore for some time to come, the absolute need for a sober calm. When it was Christmas the nativity of our lord, his benediction was this unseemly discord; in me. Under a moonlit sky a color of magic and echoing music and certain dialectics of proud logic. And later abandoned by the night floating in sleep on two strips of wood. Soaked gently by an invisible rain. These days ricochet and come back again. Just one night spent away from her like many others that are tied each to each devoid of intimacy and coyness. She danced under the open sky three hours long and I too danced differently to different songs that at that time seemed to lend themselves more to longing than to an exhilarated thrall. The morning after I wished her Christmas and she already knew that it was that time again but this time it was wrong to have been somewhere else in some other ball. Thus it is that a fairy tale one night long has two versions jingle bells and santa claus.

Sunday morning violence in jodhpur bazar. for our afternoon repast. A chicken, a kilo and two hundred grams neatly dressed, still warm when handed to me in a polythene carry bag. 66.50 but the obliging salesman was happy with 65. I’ll keep going back to him. While taking the balance I saw that he had washed his hands, he must be washing them every time a bird is sold. There is a certain kind of guilt in spilt blood, no matter where it belongs. I was wondering, its cold now, his hands must be getting pretty numb by the time he’s done. Inside the dingy abattoir in one corner the entrails and feathers of the flightless are gathered to be disbursed amongst the lower animals at the close of business. Is nutrition a grim business, is cuisine a brutal art.
These are obviously gratuitous and useless observations. Happens every time im sent to fetch meat. My mental make up I conclude is very thin and weak. Nausea forbids violence. For me at least.

The redeeming lunacy of our destinies. To be slapped by a chimp that is frustrated at not being able to escape a zoo, whose love life is all a shambles and a placid existence itself as an exhibit threatened by a prospect of half a century’s cohabitation with the object of his greatest rage. Oh why o why chimp why did you love in this zoo. Be that as it may, babu the faith worker who had shaken his cage door assiduously for the last five years finally had his patient industry rewarded yesterday morning when his cage door snapped open. A chimp don’t need anyone to tell him what he oughta do when this happens. But with a chimp couple that has seen happier days out and about in a zoo crawling with people, no one was ready for the melee that ensued. The chimps leading the panicked people ran pell mell. Nervous confusion led to frustration and one (its not clear which) chimpanzee slapped a visitor. . .

oh consumed copious quantities of the fairy tale drug in the afternoon today and then exhausted by tragedy and farce collapsed into the stupor of the calmest black that is unruffled by the incompleteness of the stories that lie jumbled in my mind like the narrow lanes of the old quarters of a timeless city and through which at odd hours lovers and thieves move with a nervous stealth. I woke woken up by ma and in that moment opened my eyes in a dream inside a dream and saw for a fleeting second that time of fairy tales when its neither dark nor light, a suspended hour of magic hung like a lamp from a tree in a far corner of an oriental garden under which the first born has hidden the most valuable belongings of his childhood at just such an indefinite hour when a hole is dug that is filled up by little hands that will soon never turn a page in a fairytale anymore and for whom this secret consigned to the deep is at the same time an adventure and a departure, a time when something ends and something begins, and where this treasure lies like the oldest and the smallest coin in a jingle of coins in the pocket of the old itinerant salesman meandering around the yellow or whitewashed houses whose women sleep in the afternoons with their ears to the street so that the moment they hear the rusty drawl of our merchant they can rush out to exchange for old clothes useless items of grace and beauty. It is a quarter whose streets are traveled by donkeys and traders and their cocky apprentices whose robust claims about the wonders of their wares and distressed litanies at the offer of prices far below a bargain open and close days like a east facing window of a tropical climate whose well worked hinges never creak but suddenly on a day will come off and hang for one whole day like round spectacles from the eyes of an old old man who has slipped into sleep with a book in his hand in the arm chair in that bright fork of light that shines bright into the room in the afternoon facing which only the old can sleep because they always sleep as if inside a dream in a dream.