beach bow bow

how i wish i was tumbleweed.

street talk in paro

the memories are quickly fading. paro is but a blur. notes from a charming town.

bend it like bendi

my copper bones will bend over this way. and that. all for you. zhoom in for full impact. somebody turn on the stereo.

merry and all...

merry xmas. happy new year. and all of that. i'm disappearing for a bit. meanwhile i've discovered play-doh!

kandakarnan

in better times his flaming headgear could be spotted from a couple of miles. a cue for everybody to gather their feet in well worn hawaiiiis and rush to kandakarnan’s court.

he hissed and spat and bit off chicken heads. petty kings and marco polo stared on in awe. kandakarnan was master of all.

today, for a god he is exceptionally accommodating. the occasional duck to avoid an overhead telephone cable. the local red party boss is taking his time over an other cuppa. kandakarnan whose fury of yore could burn your house down now has to twiddle his burning thumbs.

temple drummers work up their usual frenzy. ball of fire follows ball of fire. whoops and cries and a golden sickle to brandish. in god’s own country, when the kids don’t sleep, mothers drop kandakarnan's name. move over gabbar.

browne on the #150

browne dons the war paint in another weird departure from sanity. girls giggled. men marveled. the monster from the nadirs of darkness has risen. hair first. meanwhile it's a merry # 150 for me.

d for dzong

winter is in the bones. and i remember a year ago at drukyel dzong. bhutan's last outpost that in medieval times fought away invading chinese millions with a handful of sharp archers.

in their frocky khos, archers lined up behind drukyel dzong's baked walls and aimed and rained arrows on the hordes. that was many centuries ago. today the walls are crumbling under the weight of one too many indian tourists' graffiti onslaught. i love you rani. kemcharan das, patna 1996.
one year later i'm still besotted. with 3 days in paro. when paradise briefly relented a peek. in bhutan something strange touched me.

and it continues to itch.

good lord

that's it. if this is where online videos are headed i'm signing up for president of the armchair travelers of the world.

R.I.P.

evel knievel made one last jump. to the other side.

now on sands

was plodding through salt polythene bags sea shells urchins and the rich russian chick's rottweiler's poo. it was a lovely day to stare at the sand.

the sand has stories. shoe sizes and smoked ciggies. and the occasional sleeping dog to stumble over.

i am dundee.


itch in my shoe. it's that time of the year again. and there are so many many chains. woe.

femme sax

between sambhar lessons i squeezed in my sax for dummies hardbacks. it takes some getting used to. i can tell my sa from my ni now. just like i can tell good asafoetida from bad asafoetida. and idiots like you behind the camera will always dig the novelty of a sari clad woman blowing the sax carnatic ishtyle.

but as with the rest of the dreary world, i too need to find support for my head. and worry about rin soap and the children's homework and the maid who's been shirking. after this barnumesque show, i too need to return to colour television.

rich biatch

sadly, they knocked off the pic...

tawdry overdrive

i have no car
the road tax is too damn high
i dont want no big mercedes
even a small ta-pow will also do
but i have no car

oui why you so like that aah?
here the lion god
give you one fulltoo car
in red blue yellow magenta pink sepia sepulchura
it even has tyres

on a good day
my fulltoo car moves on engine power
no pushing shoving spluttering engine oil leaking
chinese music playing
shuang shuang yan


here is my air horn ok please
echoing through hills and valleys
creating public nuisance
my fulltoo car will run over tamil goats
and you too.

happy birthday yo! A/C no hand signal.

otter bay update

butterflies darted in and out of knee high grass. schools of masheer freckled the river with air bubbles. river terns and cormorants plucked breakfast out of the gurgling eddies. a lone fishing eagle, tan and white, jumped out of the sky and showed everyone else how it's done in style. a family of otters rolled in the sandy banks of a small island. stopping only to poke a curious whiskered snout at us. and then feet followed swimming trunks followed ribcage followed head followed perfectly poised hands into the still still black water.
oh yes. it's been a while.

janomo morono

there is an art in dying too. "to be born again you have to first die" and i wonder. what it might be like. to die one tuesday evening. and be reborn, robbed of all mortal cravings. to know some truth that nobody else does.