Our bedroom is in the attic of a handmade house. All wood with a slate roof, there’s nothing we are wanting for. A comfortable mattress on the floor, some make-do pots and pans in the kitchen, a place to meditate and practice asana. Beyond the rough hewn door is a balcony that frames the most extraordinary view. Bougainvillae creeps around the struts and beyond are the steep sloping terraces of Jibhi. Green upon green, the pines rise up to the peaks, and dotted irregularly are the pink and green homes that remind us we are still in India.
“Your forehead smells like a lost corridor, as you move towards the staff quarters of a Balearic hotel”. Pete.
Born on the day of verbal acuity, Pete has always had a way with words. He manages to articulate and translate the world in the most remarkable ways. Sights, smells and experiences are all wrapped up in alarming, acrid metaphors. Vivid, corporeal and often crude, he speaks the world alive in ways that often leave me awestruck. And often lost for words. Which is ironic because my writing business is called Found for Words.
It’s the golden hour outside and rush hour in the cattle carriage. Fans spinning hot air frantically, keeping commuters just alive as heads loll and drop at the end of a hard, hot day. I want to look out of the window. Its my favourite light. Soft and flattering to almost any scene but I can only see into the shadows, as I sideways glance through the cage. Cast by the litter strewn lines, they hang over polluted canals; greenish blue with plastic poison. I bury my head in my book. Too much for today. A day of comedy and tragedy. Finding endless amusement in the badly written signs and outrageous infrastructure. Continue reading
“See, you don’t get the same experience of India from a car”. Pete was right. Behind the darkened windows of the a/c taxi, you couldn’t feel the warm wild of the wind. You couldn’t hear the ripping of the road in your ears or smell the cavalcade of cashew, masala, garlic, sulphur, diesel and shit.