16.One day in Delhi

‍

I wake up in my little room that had everything I needed, except maybe sunlight. The bed was large and firm like a porn stars cock. The shower head sat at my shoulders and made me feel seven feet tall. The hot water would run out after fifteen minutes but it did have a kettle which was nice to be able to have my morning coffee before heading out into the chaos. I took an hours walk to Deer Park, where they have actual deer’s. They sit behind a fence that doesn’t allow a camera to capture the beauty. Behind the valley, up the path, where the dogs sit on seats and the bats hang upside down looking revolting. A park continues to open up. The grass green, allowing the pink and orange flowers to explode. Those with a bit of class come here to exercise, walking the track that keeps all those colours in. I see my first wild monkey. Walking casually, filling my eyes with fear, intrigue and humour all at once. Big red gross ass like a fat ladies haemorrhoid. I sit at a bench feeling lonely in my own happiness. I can see the blue and the light greens that sit in the belly of the leaves. I can see the branches the way van did. I can see the red scarce but bold on the ends of the brown. I can see the monkeys chase each other and pick scraps from the bin. I see my bare foot on the top of the seat and I lay my head on my runners. I see the hawk fly high looking for the rodents. I cannot see the wind but I see the falling leaves. Their time had come and they fall in circles. Dancing on the way to meet the ground they got all their shape from. I miss hearing a laugh that I caused. A smile that I provoked. Maybe all I want to see, is your eyes when you see it too.

There is a jazz bar nearby called The Piano Man. I walk in there. I knew I was too early when I sat, drinking a Budweiser watching a job interview.

“What time does the music start?” I asked the waiter who had no fingers on his left hand. I assumed he wasn’t the piano man.

“9pm”

.I walk out of there. Walk over the road. Buy a cigar for $2. Put it in my pocket and try to find a bar to bide the time until the live music starts. I could picture it now. Me watching the jazz band riff. Tapping my foot to the beat, the rhythm, the cadence. The bass player would come up to me during intermission.

“Hey man, you got style. You play?”

And I’d say, as I sat back sipping my beer, “I know three languages brother, English, Spanish and jazz”,

he would be perplexed by my charisma,

“What you play man?”

“Harmonica, piano and vocals”

Then I’d get up there and be exposed. That’s the problem with imagination; it’s so realistic sometimes.

I walk to a hidden place that had a name. You can only get there by foot. Or by car. Or by bike. Or by train. But I got there by foot. I’d massaged the back of India with my new balance runners so much I deserve a certificate as a masseuse. The place was gorgeous. A hidden alley way of bars and bars and pretty much just bars. There was a Thai massage place. Would’ve charged you through the nose to pull you off. I’m not there yet. Emphasis on the yet.

I found a place with the cricket on, sat on the balcony watching everyone walk by. I noticed the fashion and it made me feel insecure. Everywhere you go has a different culture, a different unspoken dress code, and it’s exhausting. In Delhi the skater fashion was in. Similar to Melbourne. Straight cut baggy pants, nice shoes and a thick cotton t shirt with a print on the back. Here I was, wearing runners and shorts. Not very cool of you Riley. Well, I'm slowly learning to give up on cool. Which takes a lot less effort than not, even though everyone else makes it look effortless. The deal was three kingfisher ultra max and you get the fourth free. A wiser man would have two and be on her merry way to explore the city, but wisdom hasn’t found me yet, maybe I'm too young for it. So I drink the 8%ers and everything becomes a little less scary. Start scrolling to see who is online, who the next victim of a drunken slur will be as I hide behind the distance technology allows, too scared to approach anyone around me. And why exactly?

The fear of then having to speak to someone, the fear of attachment to that agreement, being stuck, the fear of rejection, having to be something, excreting the tiniest ounce of energy required to uphold dialogue. So I left, put my headphones in and walked to Connaught Place. The epicentre of the nightlife in Delhi. The thrifters are onto me like I'm loose change on the pavement. Walking alongside me, doing my head in.

“No money sir just talk”

I’d rather pay the money.

They drag along and eventually take their shot, always missing. Trying to get me into their tourism office, trying to get commission. Its fine, it’s the way, but when they continue after you have already stated no then you can show your teeth a little bit. I stand facing them and raise my voice enough to startle an infant.

“I said no!”

Dam, look at me, such a firm man. Really respects his own boundaries. I walk into a bar that has the cricket on a projector. Australia are batting well. They might just win this thing. Had lunch and a few more beers. Waiting for the sun to calm down and walked out of there as big as 10 men. I decided to walk through the markets and find something more fitting for the weather. The markets are pretty but like all markets don’t sell much worth buying. I haggled for an aqua shirt. Got it for $10. Probably worth less. Walking along the side of the road beside the shops there were a few westerners about. Maybe they would be interested in me and start a conversation. But they weren’t and they didn’t, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to. I kept walking and that’s when I met the Yogi.

“Excuse me sir?”

“Yeah man”

“You have very kind energy and very nice moon face”

“Thanks”

“You are spiritual but haven’t learnt how to clean yourself yet”

“Probably”

He asked me to step into his office. Which was right there. Small but in a great location! I was up for it, interested, and my mindset was a little more kind. Maybe because Australia batted well. I sat in front of him. He opened his folder and showed me photos of him with other westerners. I was still sceptical, obviously, you couldn’t walk three metres without someone trying to ply rupees from your pocket. If you get your hopes up in India its because you're about to be ripped off. But I didn’t have any money on me so what could he do to get it. He opened the folder and took out small piece of white paper. He held my thumb. Asked me to say good luck three times. Had Krishna and Vishnu framed beside his desk and he kept looking over to them. He wrote down on a piece of paper something. Handed it to me. and told me to keep my hand closed and place it on my heart.

“Name me a colour”

“Aqua”

“Blue?”

“Yeah blue”

“Put some money in here please”

I put 20r, the last of the notes I had in my wallet.

“Now look at the note”

On it, read blue. I looked down and I was wearing an aqua shirt and blue shorts.

“That’s the colour of me shirt” I said.

“If I could tell you your mother’s name, how many brothers and sisters you have, your birthday and you have a girl in your heart don’t you?”

“Yeah, kind of”

“If I could tell you all of these and the girls name would you pay this, this, or this?”

He had 5000, 7000, and 10000 written on a piece of paper.

“If you can do all that I’ll pay you 5000”

“Are you poor?” he asked,

“Yes”

He laughed.

He read my palm. I will love to 89 and die easy. I will be successful but money will come and go. I will come back to India but from a different country. I will be a farmer.. The girl I love will wait for me but the timing isn’t right. She has a man in her life whose name starts with j. He is not good for me. Has bad words in her ear. I know him from a past life but I have a bad memory. She loves me for my nature and 75% of her knows that but just 25% of her believes this man’s words. My mum is a very special lady, she is not normal, she looks normal but she isn’t normal. Very spiritual lady. He told me I can get lazy but it’s because I don’t have enough water in my system. I make too many friends. He said don’t lend people money that you shouldn’t. Said that I had done that in the past. He took his time and wrote down everything on another piece of paper. Handed it to me and told me to put it in my bag.

“You have met a yogi before?” he asked,

“Nope”

“You have had your palm read before?”

“Yes, by my nan”

“He is strong”

“She is, my nan, my mums mum” I corrected.

“You speak the truth and it gets you in trouble. You have been lucky to be born in your society. In past times you have been in jail. You have strong heart and strong truth but a bad memory”

He told me to get the note out of my bag and open it. There it read.

Tracey

B 4 S 0

31/03/1993

and the girls name, which I won’t mention to you scoundrels. It was incredible. There was no way he could have known anything. If there were any tricks. Some Chris angel mind freak stuff. It had no other option but to be real. To know the names mostly. Or my exact birthdate. He gave me another note.

“Hold this, and go with my son to the atm and you get 7000R for me”

$130 Australian.

So I held the note and we did. His son was cool. Been to Melbourne. Used to live in Sunshine. Gross I know. He was training to be a yogi too.

I walked back in, gave him the money.

“Tell me the first letter of an animal”

“D” I said, thinking of Ralph.

“Open the note”

I opened it and it had ‘Love – Dog’ written down.

“You want love like a dog, this girl loves you but it is not yet. She will give you an ultimatum soon, in about 29 days. Whatever she says don’t fight it, just say ok, yes or no.”

He handed me a piece of paper, asked me to rip it into three pieces. I did and handed them to him one by one. He asked for more money, I said no. I only got 7000R out at the atm because I knew whatever I had he would have worked out a way to get it out of me.

“You have another phone in your bag, can you give that to me?”

I keep my old phone in my bag in case of trouble.

“Sorry, I can’t give you that”

“Do not be tied to money”

“I know, I'm sorry, but no”

I ended up giving him my water bottle.

He gave me a mala (necklace) and a mantra. I was to say it 21 times in the morning next to a glass of water. Once I had said it then drink the water slowly. This will help my blood circulation. And I do get pins and needles!

He told me, to not tell anyone for 11 days. So I haven’t, and it’s been that now, so here I am telling you. What to make of it, I don’t know. I guess I’ll work that out. It was just nice to have someone touch my hand.

I felt I better do something other than drink more now so I went to a temple. Walked around it. Got tired and could have laid on the grass right there and fallen asleep. I stood on a balcony built by the rich long since dead, built by those whose bones sat in the temple behind me. What are big giant tombs but a flex of the rich too scared to die, a reminder of the way they lived clinging to their identity. Whilst I pay $6 to get in and walk past the children asleep on the street. Maybe if those who could afford to build a memory of their existence put it towards the ones living we would all be better off. I heard the universal voice of children. I looked down and they all waved at my light skin and moustache. They posed for a photo beside the river. Then they asked for money. Always the same generic action. All fingers touching as if they’re grabbing a crust of bread. I got my wallet out and threw a 500R note. It fell with no grace like the man throwing it. As if a king to his peasants. Five of them watched with their dry mouths as the note fell. The biggest and fastest grabbed the note and took off. What did I think was going to happen? They’d cut it up into pieces and share it? The rest looked up and proceeded to beg for more. I wasn’t going to give anymore. I told them that. But they didn’t stop. I took a step back to hide their cries. They took a step back to see me again. I shook my head, “no more”

Yet they continued, each cry a little more agonising. A dog’s bark keeping you awake. I couldn’t ignore it nor withstand it.

I took another step back. Now the ledge had hidden all land and therefore their dumb white teeth. The young kids stepped into the water to make eye contact again. I took another step. They did too.

“More, please, please” they say, putting their hand to their mouths implying their hunger.

I took a step back. The boy followed me. He couldn’t swim. He tried to beg but he was now distracted by his will to live. I took another step back and listened until the cries and the shouts stopped. I finally had peace.

I got an uber to head back to my colony, which is what they call their little towns. The driver went the long way. Then he sat to get gas. The weather was too warm to leave the windows up and when they were down the car filled with mosquitos. Asked me for 200r, I gave it. By the time we get to where I was going, a 30 minute trip turned into an hour. He pushed the fee and it was 400r. I said to take off the 200 I paid, and I didn’t have the correct money anyway. So I gave him 500r, he had no change. 300r ride turned into 700r and I slammed the door in frustration. It didn’t matter it was only eight Australian dollars, it was the principle!

I wondered what I’d do next, If I was brutally honest to my needs, which pains the ego to death but there’s nothing worse than lies. All I really want to do, is sit in front the white page and drink and get lost in my imagination. My imagination where a fragile little fuckhead like me is in complete control. Finally, a women who says what I want her to, to bring out my charm and humour. Finally, a man willing to challenge me. A fight with no bruises when I wake up. This intellect running across fields like a drunk unicorn. That’s all I want, to sit within this mind and live a life that isn’t real, to write stories I wish reality didn’t ruin. There is nothing more alchemising than a passage of writing. I could write it, scrunch it up and throw it into that green lake that sits in the middle of deer park. Walk with validation as every step causes sweat and unease in my growing stomach hair. The clothes I wear that aren’t as cool as others. The haircut. The beard. The shoes. All for comfort causing discomfort because I’m ugly and fat. That one passage is greater than any meditation, any drink, any drug, any bug spray, any exercise, any sleep, any fuck, any approval. When that line, when that sentence, when that passage, metaphor, analogy, simile, condensed originality gets spat onto the page. Then I deserve to breathe in the oxygen the trees breathe out.

And the sharpening of the sword sits on both sides of the blade. When you try to express that splinter sitting in your heart and can show nothing but the blood from your fat fingers trying to pinch it, then the flies start to walk on your thighs and the beard on your neck curls on itself to scream questions you forgot to ask. Your identity is nothing but a collection of opinions and a concentration of energy that decays the body as it sits still in the current of time, like the smooth rock so thin a soft touch will snap it in half. I have died so many deaths and watched the red splatter from the back of my throat as I try and explain myself, and I have swallowed that blood and spat black gold in the form of English on the white page. All of this, if I could eat the words and the page itself to survive, if the screen was shelter from the rain and the body who allows me to witness you, my sweet love, if that body wasn’t so fragile, then I could float on the grass, knowing I wrote that poem that ages like virtue and truth. Knowing I did that, and that’s enough. But I keep on going, losing and finding myself along the way, loving and hating him all the same. You sly dog, your eye colour keeps changing and your beard has grown back darker this time, your curls aren’t curling perfectly and a wiser man could tell that you’re someone else today. So who are you beneath this everchanging vessel?

Who are you?

Nothing but a man looking for a good line, like a strong mackerel ready to test its strength against the brains of those dumb pink animals called humans.

Oh, who are you?

Please; let me write to forget. Give me something to smile about as I read back and think,

that might be something. That might just be okay.

Maybe, just maybe, I do deserve to be here.

All that made me feel a little bit better, as I continued to walk the streets that beep. Men dressed as ladies walk up to me in a group.

“oooh you're so handsome” they say,

They’re trans. The progressive country of India has them sticking together, walking up to walkers and the windows of the drivers asking for money. You give them money and they bless you, you give them grief and they will fight you and no one will help. I gave them money. I liked the way they looked at me. One kissed me on both cheeks and held me close and made me question everything. But another thing reality would ruin, the thought of taking off that orange silk gown and seeing a little hairy Indian cock.

‍