Curry, cricket & culture – Part 4

My South African soles step onto Indian soil, these are my stories…

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Last night in search for my rhythm, I went dancing.
I was instantly transported into a Bollywood movie, female lead not included.
A mother and daughter set fire to the floor, the male star twirls them both.
There is a meat sandwich I cannot unsee.
A couple ball room to electronic. A man confidances.
A slightly older, heavily drunk gentlemen relives his youthful ballet days.

I feel at home, homeless, homesick.
All at the same time.

The street kids here claw at windows, tug at clothes and ask for the shoes off your feet.
They are unlucky charms in a sky too polluted to witness rainbows, there is no pot of gold.
I hand them money but am told I will do more harm than good, I find that hard to believe.

Some days I feel lost.
I have shed tears from each end of the emotional scale.
I am writing less, but living more.

The poets here are unmatched, the world will know India’s name.

The local eatery engineers have become familiar with my face.
I don’t ask for the English menu anymore.
Palak Paneer.
Dal Makhni.
Butter Roti.
These three take the podium, in that order.
I have lost weight. No I haven’t. I am in denial.

In this country there will come a moment where you are forced to stare at yourself in the mirror, confront your comfort zone.
The sooner you burn that bitch to the ground the better.
Watch it rot in your 3, going on 4 day unwashed body.

The howling of hooters still aggravates me.
I know I know, it means something different here.
Cab drivers get lost, a lot.
Auto drivers start the bidding war off far too high but walking away seems to bring them to their senses.

It is so loud the city bustle rustles thunder.
The rain is still a blessing, everything is.
One month down…

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