by the time the kids are 3 and 4, they’ve decided the kid’s school. so the kid spends a few years learning things every day they have absolutely no inclination to. a few more years and they’ve learnt the capital of timbuktu and cambodia and the date world war 2 ended, but what they would love to do, they’re still alienated from.
maybe they want to paint, maybe they want to stare at birds, or they want to plant tulips. maybe they want to run in the fields, maybe they just want to play with goats and ducks and piglets.
but they get none of this at school. they get shit grades in algebra instead. they are ridiculed. they keep thinking ‘soon this will get better’. and before they know it, 15 years have passed.
now those same parents have decided what the kids are going to do in life. so the kid that dreamed of farming oranges all his life is now doing an ‘mba in human resources’, because, you know, capitalism knows best and parents know better. soon this will get better, he/she still says. it never does.
and then you see the same parents around the dinner table telling their friends ‘my kid hates me, i don’t know what to do’.
you know those parents. i’m no expert but, don’t be those parents.
you know those parents
Munchies
After a long day of tripping balls and picking olives, we walked into the house just past sunset and Elektra was pulling out a dish from the oven. It smelled like warm heaven. Aubergine, baby potatoes, peppers, cheese, beans, tomatoes, I could differentiate each and every smell given the heightened state of my senses. She’d also put a few actual chilli peppers cos I made a special request for spicy food. I finished a long warm bath and came out to dig in. And my first bite had a big chilli pepper.
I cried both in joy and pain. I wanted it so bad, I needed it like never before, but this was fire. The flames coming out my mouth, I wondered if anyone else could see, or if it was just my imagination. My rockstar boss Strato handed me some cream cheese and said, here, this will help. So I took a big bite. And yes, it did magically help. So I took another bite of chilli.
More fire.
I continued taking alternate bites of chilli and cream cheese and I was enjoying this almost like a fetish. Yeah, I think that qualifies as a fetish.
After gobbling down half my dinner, I casually pulled the fridge door open. And I saw a bottle of strawberry extract, which I promptly spread over a cookie and sent down my throat. Very nice indeed, but it wasn’t what I wanted to finish the night with, for my mouth.
So I ate some more of the baked goodies and then took another big hit of chilli and cheese. My god this was addictive.
Again I cry. This time I run to the freezer to shove my head in. And I notice a big tub of ice cream, and stick my tongue to the container to cool it down. My fingers pry open the lid, and inside this big tub there’s four segregated flavours of ice cream. I translate the writing on the lid – cacao, caramel, banana, and vanilla.
My mind’s already made up about which flavours to try – but I try them all anyway.
That’s when Elektra says ‘nobody here eats ice cream, you can eat it all’.
clockwise from bottom left – banana, caramel, vanilla, cacaaoooo
I can tell nobody eats ice cream there cos it looks untouched. Nobody eats meat, sugar, or consumes milk in the house. Damned hippies.
Strange as it seems, my life has been devoid of ice cream since Pondicherry 10 months ago, where I teach yoga and eat ice cream at the greatest ice cream store by the promenade. The greatest ice cream in the world, i might add.
In fact, my system has forgotten all about ice cream too, and dairy and meat, given the fact that the last month was spent on a deserted island – where there’s no roads and no electricity and no butcher and no shops. And no people, fuck yeah.
So the ice cream, it sets off alarm bells to my taste buds.
I confirm, ‘I can finish it all? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. If you can.’
‘Oh, I can. I can’, i hear my mouth respond before my brain could.
I’ve gone through one spoon each of all the flavours, testing, testing, and now I’m certain I’ll stick to cacao and caramel, anything more is greed.
The tub is 5 KG. The 15 year old math wizard in me jumps out and numbers pop.
5 kg for 4 flavours makes it 1.25 kg per flavour that gives me 2.5 kg of the 2 selected flavours to be completed in less than 24 hours cos my work in the olive groves is finished and my ticket back to the mainland is the next evening. So maybe 500 grams over 5 meals in 24 hours. Which means i eat only ice cream next 5 meals.
And now that my body knows ice cream is within arm’s reach, its screaming to me – little voices from every corner of my stomach and heart and kidney going ‘ICE CREAM ICE CREAM YAYYY ICE CREAM’ little strands of DNA doing the happy dance ‘ICE CREAM YAYY’ african drums playing in the background ‘YAYYY’.
So I make myself a big bowl for dessert right after I lap the final bits of my dinner. Ice cream topped with hazelnuts and almonds. I do a ritual dance before i dig in.
I go through that like a rollercoaster and the circle of spliff comes to me.
‘Thank you God for the good life’, I whisper my gratitude to the universe.
I waltz to the kitchen with the empty bowl and fill it again, almost like a robot. No thinking, only doing. This time there’s crunchy paksimadi, two big spoons of tahini poured over, and a handful of dry fruit. All this on top of four big scoops of my ice cream.
The beautiful parents of Elektra look at me like ‘are you ok?’, definitely they think my sudden 100x jump in appetite this evening is strange.
I do not want to tell them what I was tripping on the whole day, cos I know they don’t approve of anything apart from mountain-grade charas. Only organic matter is allowed into the system. So I stay mum and flash a big smile with ice cream and nuts and tahini stuck in my teeth,
‘ya ya, im goof’, I bite.
Brain-freezzziiINGGGGGGGAAAH. AAH. NNNNGGGG.
The mountain grade comes back to me and I nourish myself with shiva power or kundalini or manali or mohammadali or whatever you like to call it.
I’m already planning next morning’s breakfast when I pull long deep hits into my belly. Mix of warm fumes and cold cream. God is in the little things.
*sigh*
It’ll be the same bowl, I think for breakfast. With apples, bananas, dates, figs, and whatever else I can get my hands on. Oats. Yes, oats too. Avocado? Yes why not. It’ll feel left out if I don’t.
Maybe ill fry the whole thing in Grade-A Cretan olive oil. Maybe lunch will be the same with some salad on the side.
Oh my God. Demonios.
By now I know a deep subconscious trigger has been set off. Like olives raining all around me. Like vultures circling prey. Like tahini mixed into ice cream. Like watching the sun drop into the sea from a high point.
Tahini Island – Part 1
Lakis was sat in the corner of the ‘kitchen/cafeneio’, baseball hat, unbuttoned checked shirt, torn pants, and on his 7th rollie cigarette since i got there. I imagine the clothes were what he bought in 1960. His palm-size ancient transistor was playing the radio. And interspersed between the traditional greek songs were ‘Highway to Hell’ and ‘No Diggity’. I danced, headbanged, rapped along… whatever the mood took me to, and he was well amused with my Diggity bits and my Brian Johnson impersonation, even though it fucked my throat up.
I was sitting on a huge wooden trunk laid horizontally outside the kitchen like a couch, and E to my right was verrrry slowwwwly rolling a spliff, staring at it in pause-mode from time to time, and finally handed it to me to finish the job. From the time she was flitting around like a bird in the shallow waters earlier, i could tell she’d had a ‘magic cookie’ for breakfast. She had that permanent smile on her face.
View from kitchen trunk/sofa.
When i handed the ready spliff back to her, she said something in Greek to me. I smiled and said E, I’m not Greek. ‘Ohhh pohpoh i forget bijouuuu’. Happens all the time. I was wondering where Nef was. It’d been approximately two hours since i last saw her. Maybe more, but time is a strange concept on the island. Sometimes the hours between morning and evening feel like a few days. We assumed she was passed out under the shade of one of the few dozen cedar or pine trees and left it at that. The sun was calm, the water was magical, and i went in for frequent dips to swim with the fish, some of whom had become friends with me and would swim by my side every time. As of last count, we’re the only four people on this part of the island, and some goats that tried to steal Keke’s tomatoes earlier. Keke, who was with us until morning, headed out to handpoke a tattoo for a friend on another corner of the island. This was our hood. I know the island now like i know the backalleys of Bandra or Tarapoto or Sikkim or Rio. My only fear was walking naked into sharp cedar branches, so my handbag always protected les bijoux de famille.
Keke and Lakis in the kitchen, earlier.
Its broad daylight, clear skies, gorgeous sun throwing rings around the sky, around 11am i assume, and we sight a boat on the far horizon headed this way. E and i believe its our friends from four beaches away coming to us with apples, dry fruits, olives, tahini, olive oil, honey, and other supplies that i cant mention here cos my mum might read it. Right now i’d love some dry fruits, and i pass the spliff to Lakis. He’s maybe 75, and has been a permanent resident on this specific beach for over 3 decades. The rest come, stay a few days/weeks/months, and move on. Some don’t come to this beach cos the descent of the canyon is a pretty steep one.
$$$$$ spent on trekking research every year and here we are, doing 200ft drops in lungis and pink shades, unwillingly flashing hikers in decathlon gear being the only fear.
The boat appears closer, the spliff goes another couple rounds, and a new one is being manufactured. We can now see a dozen heads on it, and a dozen naked bodies jump out and wade towards shore. Definitely this is way more than our friends. Who the fuck is bringing a party to this tranquility? On second glance, this bunch is older too. Well. That’s relative now since Lakis is with us. But surely, this isn’t our friends. Our friends have dreadlocks and tattoos. This is a bunch of pale ‘tourists’. Bald, mostly.
‘Ahh, this is the nude resort boat from the next island’, Lakis exclaims. They do this once a week, he says. And he doesn’t mind it too much cos the boat captain always brings him chilled beer and food from the resort’s kitchen. Sure enough, the captain comes by and hands him the beers and grilled chicken. Lakis offers some to us but E’s on a different reality, i take a liiitttle bit in a glass cos mixing spliffs and beers have been my undoing on many occasions.
‘IS THAT A JOINT?!??’ a very excited voice. Yes, would you like to try…
‘Yes please. I’m from the Netherlands but my wife doesn’t let me smoke.’
‘Ah, you are now recalling your youth now you naughty boy,’ says the German lady. And she suddenly breaks into a karaoke rendition of a Manu Chao song about marijuana.
The dutchman takes two hits, shivers, and his body goes into auto-pilot and sits down on the sand. He’s got a really wide grin on his face, surely he hasn’t smoked in a long time. They’re all in their 60s. Im guessing ‘naturists tourism’ is popular in this part of the mediterranean. There’s a big round of introductions and pleasantries – French, Dutch, South African, Belgian, German, Austrian, English, Australian, and of course there’s Russian. They look wide-eyed at me like i’m from another planet. In time, the obvious questions arise and the expected surprises subside.
‘Nice that Nef is not here, else she would have laughed a bit much’, E says while I watch the joint now go to many more hands. Her eyes look amazing, I wish I had taken some of that magic cookie for breakfast too, maybe tomorrow. ‘But where is she?’
The tourists are amusing themselves with the fact an Indian and Greek are handing them spliffs which wasn’t part of what their retreat itinerary promised. Now they’re all getting giggly and swaying and totally getting into the party mood.
‘OH I know one GREEK SONG!’, ze german exclaims. I notice she has 4 front teeth missing. Heroin, i’m guessing. But a hot bod for her age.
And she breaks into song, staccato, harmony, the whole range with 100% emotion, and finally after she finishes, she asks E if she knows what it meant cos she doesn’t.
‘It says you will find your man one day, don’t give up… sorry i’m just translating the song’.
* awkward silence *
…
…..
‘Aw, but you can always have me’, the silence is broken by the Aussie dude.
‘Ow about me!’, I hear a french accent.
The german seductress flashes looks between the two, looks at me, and goes ‘but 3 is always better than 2..’
‘Lakis, can i have some more beer please’, i walk to Lakis and immediately realize my mistake cos she’s now checking out my arse. I instinctively wrap the lungi around. She starts another song, this time accompanied by the Austrian and the Belgian and everyone’s in great spirit again. Yay.
I sip my beer and wonder if the song is about my arse. I don’t know the german word for arse so i cant be sure. I go for a quick dip and say hello to my fish friends.
‘heyyyy fishy fishy fishy heyyyyy’
One the way back i pick up some shells to play with and i walk into them explaining to E that once a year they come to the island to adorn themselves with the clay, which some claim is super magical. I don’t think E understood or even heard a word, but she kept nodding. I already noticed half the bunch pasting the clay on one another. Weirdos.
E struts off for another swim, the boat bunch clay themselves and roll around the muddy area, and smoke and dance and sing some more, the choruses getting louder and louder. They gather around and take a selfie, maybe 15. Then come over to shake my hand, and take a few more hits, and run back to the boat and they’re off. Still singing.
Tsk. Not my poison.
‘I thought that boat was my friend bringing mouse poison for me’, Lakis says disappointed, sipping the beer and reaching out for the last few drags.
‘You have mice here??’
‘Lots,’ he arches his thick white eyebrows.
‘Maybe tomorrow i bring you a cat eh.’
Nef walks out from under a tree, in a turban, scratching her head, ‘what was all that noise…’
‘Tourists. Nice nap?’
Rock & Roll, Bayybeh
Mood Indigo, Powai, Mumbai – 2002.
I was just a rock/metal fan until a year ago.
Then something massive happened. My brother’s band, Acquired Funk Syndrome, won Independence Rock 2001-02. It goes down as the most memorable concert of my youth. Not cos it was the band i grew up watching jam in a little dump in Phoolgate, Pune. Not cos they’d jam at my place when uncles had taken over the jam-pad to practice La Bamba for the local church fete. Not cos Bruce, Fali, Rushad & Sandy were the coolest bunch ever. There’s a long list of reasons, too long to list here.
But at that I-Rock in Rang Bhavan, Marzban Irani, the sound guy for AFS looked at me just as they were going up on stage for the competition, ‘Bijou, you do the lights, see these two faders, just push them up or down based on the music. You know the music. It’s damn simple.’ I was shattered. I wanted to go down to the mosh-pit like any regular teenager.
‘If it’s so simple why don’t you do it?’, I asked.
‘I have to focus on sound and make announcements when Bruce appears in his Govinda outfit bhenchot, just fucking do it.’
So I did. And as legend has it, AFS won. By miles. What they did, people present that day would recall with fond memories. I still get goosebumps.
Fuckall part was, since they won, I got light duties going ahead. ‘You’re good luck on lights bastard don’t jinx it’, I was told. So i tagged along for their competitions, all of them clean sweeps. Audiences left awestruck around the country. Meteoric rise to fame and all that. A little known company started by a college dropout, sign them on as his first band, calls the company OML.
Eventually i said at a band meeting ‘I QUIT’, and went back to the mosh-pit.
But that Mood-Indigo of 2002 i recalled today for other reasons. AFS did win that too, but that’s not the main story.
Soundcheck was on all day – bands, roadies, event people sticking around to get an idea of every band’s setlist. Pentagram is on stage for their soundcheck. At that point, they were the greatest pro act I could think of. And getting to even hang out during the day close to these guys was a dream come true. Even if all i did was hand water bottles to Shiraz with dreamy eyes. But it went beyond that.
Now, Pentagram had a lot of haters. Them being the first to bring in the ‘electronica’ sound to the metal/rock junta, not many were impressed. ‘Aye DJ aaya DJ aaya’, many said. I was amazed though. I loved them even more since that ‘Up’ album dropped, which is still one of the greatest Indi rock albums in my opinion.
Anyway, some friends of other bands are gathered on the steps in front of the stage, while Penta soundcheck. Black tees, long hair, etc. They’re guzzling down old monk rum, bloodshot eyes, waiting for their favourite band Metakix to soundcheck right after Pentagram.
That’s when one of them starts the chants ‘Bhenchot, Matherchot, Bhenchot, Matherchot..’. I’m a little uncomfortable. For the band yes, it’s stupid to be figuring out sound and have to listen to drunk runts abuse you. Then I’m wondering, you know if you did that at a concert, and somebody from the band got pissed, you could duck and hide between a thousand black tees and long hair. Here, you’re right in the center of the amphitheater, in broad daylight, sitting ducks. Nobody else. What if someone from the band got pissed…
And that’s when Vishal, the vocalist of Pentagram, known to have the shortest fuse in the music scene, plugs his mic into the mic stand, turns around and nods at Shiraz (drums) and Papal (bass). They all lay their instruments down. Randolph continues tuning his guitar, raasta love and peace.
The next few seconds were blitzkrieg. The three of them jumped off stage, ran, and flying kicks ensued. One slap that still rings in my head like the sax on Careless Whisper brought everyone around out of their ‘is this happening?’ moment, I ran in, cos i wanted a piece of the action and I loved Penta. But by the time i got to the melee, there was only one skinny guy cowering and whimpering, all the old monk he guzzled had left his system in seconds. The big loud guys who were just minutes ago showing their middle fingers, and chanting abuses very confidently, were knocked out.
Vishal looked at me, ‘You ok?’
‘I’m perfect’, i replied. He gave me a high five. That was it. I’d made it.
Penta got back on stage, soundcheck continued. Randolph didn’t even have to move, his strings were tuned and ready for the next song.
7 years later, in a completely unrelated incident, Pentagram asked me to be their road/tour manager.
I still have a bunch of creatives from a year of touring with them. I also have about four dozen ‘pentagram stories’.
Now go listen to ‘Is there a light’ – from 18 years ago.
Daydreaming
I got back from Bhutan pretty much still in a daze, heavily sedated.
So while my mind was all over the damn place the last few days, I started going through my music, and making mixes. And voila, there’s 5 new mixes. The same number i’ve churned out in the last 4 years. So yeah, Bhutan was incredibly inspiring. I’ll write about the trip later, for now here’s most of the outcome of it.
Now if you’re on my instagram @johnnyfuckinb you’ve already read the blah blah about the new musical direction, new inspirations, breaking the mould, etc. So i won’t bore you with that here. I’ll get straight to the music. As for the stories behind/locations of the related images, you’ll have to get on my insta.
Have a great day/week/life.
Much love, always.
Cold Water
I got to Shillong a day before my birthday and crashed with Levin and Ruel of the Bassment crew. Levin’s moved on from the band now, yes, but this was 2015 October. So when Levin’s around, the party never ends. He’d kept the alcohol ready, and despite the fact it was something I didn’t partake in anymore, it was a birthday celebration and i couldn’t be impolite, could I? Rest of the night involved disturbing the neighbours a lot, who’d all come for the festival so they joined in rather than complaining to front-desk.
Needless to say the band didn’t make it to soundcheck the next morning, day 1 of the inaugural NH7 Weekender, Shillong, which was not exactly in Shillong but about half an hour away in a gorgeous meadow among the hills. Still my favourite festival venue apart from Arkana in Peru and Musilac in France. On the bill were The Wailers of the Marley fame. This was going to be a memorable birthday weekend, even if day 2 was going to be a metal overdose. I rode with the band to the venue around 3 pm.
The long walk from the ticket counter to the main stages was interrupted by a curly haired dude I recognized had come all the way from Pune. This turned out to be a famous saxophone player whose first words to me were ‘man I wish I had some lsd and I’d just run through these fields’. Guess who had lsd in his pockets? The birthday boy of course.
4:30 pm, we’d taken some by the reggae/ska stage and then a bit more. We caught Bassment, Ska Vengers, and a rap-metal band whose name i still can’t spell but were really good. I told sax-boy to catch up later, for the after party, and then I walked around the fields to get a glimpse of the other acts, and shared hugs with the huge bunch that’d come down from Bombay and Pune and Bangalore, some i’d not met in a decade when we were in a band together.
It starts pouring and Meghalaya – Shillong especially – is famous for the beautiful light rains through the year.
People make a frantic dash to get cover from the rain, mostly to food stalls and bars and the roof over stages. I found an intersection from where I could hear the music coming from three out of the 4 stages. And one of them, still setting up, is where my heart was set. So I trudged slowly towards it, while others ran helter-skelter. When you’re on lsd, the rain can be magic.
This was about two hours after I’d taken it, so those who have, would know that’s around when the first big wave hits. Sudden and euphoric, the ‘letting go’ point. And when every sensation is heightened, even the smallest rain droplets feel like you’re standing under a slow-motion hot waterfall. You’re in love. Getting drenched is then near-orgasmic. Like the world around you is a gigantic warm moist enclosure.
Then his voice. I had never heard the band before, but one minute in, i’m a fan for life.
My God, that voice.. cold cold water, again.
Shivers and goosebumps. Crawling up my spine like warm static electric hits, starting up my toes and fingers, all the way to my neck, till they collide in the little power-box in my brains, the explosion. I could swear then, those drops of water landing on me and bursting on my skin had embraces in them. And while everyone ran as close to the stage to stay dry, I stayed in the sweet spot, where the sound is always perfect, under the falling rain. Like those animes and movies, I was in a sonic boom, hair blowing, clothes drenched, if I’d taken my feet off the ground I’d have floated into the cosmos in a rainbow bubble, with only Nicholson tunes playing in the bubble and all around. Gorgeous beings swayed and danced in my vision ahead, then around me. I felt a wobbly knee almost give up on me. If I’d hit the ground, I’d have tears running down. And I did, but in the rain nobody notices.
Nicholson has since been my go-to at every festival. I hope they play every festival everywhere in the world. The one time i missed them was because i went backstage to shake Brandon Boyd’s (Incubus) hand. And i sometimes regret not being at the Nicholson stage despite being a 2-decade Incubus fan.
That day in Shillong was life-changing in more ways than one.
Update: That rap metal band i can never spell is Borkung Hrangkhawl. See what i mean?
Asian Dubbed
Back in 2010, when they announced the first NH7 Weekender in Pune, none could’ve been as excited as me. Cos [A] – it was less than 10 mins from my house in Pune, so woooo afterpartieeees and [B] – they announced Asian Dub Foundation as the headliners.
Now this was going to be the first real Music Festival many in India would experience, and 8 years down, it’s still pretty much the biggest festival.
My own history with NH7 goes back to 2001-02 when Vijay, the founder started managing bands as a 17 year old college dropout, and my brother’s band Acquired Funk Syndrome was his first ever signing (and i may have rolled him his first ever joint); Later in 2008-09, through some strange stroke of luck and utter boredom with the radio job, I took up the tour manager role on weekends for one of NH7’s in-house artists and probably India’s greatest act – Pentagram. The rock n roll life, I don’t think i can ever get bored of.
I also spent a lot of time in cars with big amplifiers and bass tubes deafening oncoming traffic with RATM and Asian Dub F and Nine Inch Nails and The Prodigy and the likes back in the day. Loud, very loud. The ex drummer of Prodigy now plays for Asian Dub Foundation.
‘A good song should make you wanna tap your foot and get with your girl. A great song should destroy cop cars and set fire to the suburbs’, Tom Morello said. I never got around to burning a cop car cos Indian cop cars are pretty much the worst cars on the road, you kinda feel bad for them.
Much has changed now but those bands and their tunes still give me goosebumps on the rare occasion that i listen to them.
But that day in December 2010 I had got to Pune for this from the Press job in Delhi. On the way i made a pit-stop at Pushkar with a friend and scored some of the best hashish for my homies, many of whom would gather in Pune for the festival. Two amazing days have passed by with some amazing bands and acts so far including my old boys (and early band mates) Scribe, Bhayanak Maut, Blackstratblues, Faridkot, Indian Ocean, Susheela Raman, Zero (of course) and even The Magic Numbers, and everyone, EVERYONE is excited about the final day. I don’t think anyone’s ever dreamed they’d catch Asian Dub Foundation live. Everyone’s waiting for the moment, headrush, alcohol, dancing, singing, jumping.
We were in the parking lot, a small group of us testing the new stuff I bought with me, not disturbing anyone at all just having our own sweet little calm before the storm, when a festival security dude came up, grabbed Zico’s hand (which had the joint) and dragged him to the head of security. Festival security in India is very strict about drugs.
As a good friend would do, you know, i went up to where the security was gathered, and told them – let him be guys, it’s a music festival, relax, what’s the big deal?
The head of security goes ‘Usko chhod, isko search kar’ (leave him, search this guy). And damn, they found everything in my pockets. Zico just coolly walked away. I stare at him like ‘FUCK YOU ZICO’.
Wow. What luck. Fuck me.
In 2 minutes, there’s 5 huge guys surrounding me, they’ve cut my festival wristband, torn up my ticket, they’ve taken all the stash, and they’re threatening to send me to the cops.
I can hear the speakers blaring, the second last band (the same band i used to manage) is about to wrap up. The vocalist announces that there’s 15 minutes until Asian Dub Foundation starts. There’s loud screaming and howling from the fans. This is a strange miserable way to not catch a childhood favourite band.. i’m just about to feel like absolute shit and then.
I take a deep breath, I smile.
‘See man, I’m going in to the festival with or without my wristband, one way or another. And after I’m done, i’ll be back here for my stash. You can keep it till then. You can smoke some if you want. But I AM going in, brother. Legally, you have no right to take away what we were smoking in the parking lot – it’s not within the festival premises, but i have no time to argue with you right now. Asian Dub starts in 10 minutes.’
The head of security, he actually walked with me to the gates to let me in cos i didn’t have a wristband and ticket anymore.
Then i caught them live. Something just like this.
And after the festival, he came to me in the parking lot and gave me back my stash. All of it.
Every year at the fest since that opening NH7 Weekender, he and i have shared a hug. It’s always nice to be in the good books of the Head of Security. Three years later I made my own festival debut at NH7 Weekender.
Buddy..
This is a piece by reddit user Euthenios that i felt the urge to put on my blog so i can come back to it whenever i want. Thank you Euthenios.
The last thing I remember is My Person bringing me to the Sharp Place.
I never understood why My Person would bring me to the Sharp Place. The smells were sharp, and they poked me with sharp things. That’s why I called it the Sharp Place. It was a bad place. I didn’t like it.
I don’t know why My Person brought me there, that day of all days. I already hadn’t been feeling good. I’d been throwing up, and my hips hurt and my paws hurt. Even eating grass didn’t help. And then My Person brought me to the Sharp Place. I tried to be mad at him, but he seemed so sad about something, so I tried to wag my tail to cheer him up. I didn’t even really notice when the Sharp Place poked me.
Then my eyes got heavy and that was the last thing I remember.
“Buddy,” a voice said. “Buddy, wake up.”
I opened my eyes and got to my feet, and I realized my paws didn’t hurt anymore. I tried a wag, and that was fine, too. I sniffed the air. It smelled like the Play Park and like Our Home and the Car Window. I liked it a lot.
“Welcome, Buddy,” came the voice again, from behind me.
I turned around, and there was a person there. He wasn’t My Person, but he was all safe and good smells, so I trusted him.
“Where am I?” I said.
“You’re in the place that Good Boys go” the person said.
“I was a Good Boy?” I said.
“You were a Very Good Boy,” he told me.
That was good. I always tried to be a Good Boy. “Where’s My Person?” I asked.
“He’s still down there,” the person said. And he waved his arm and all of a sudden we were in Our Home, and My Person was sitting on the Forbidden Chair and looking sad. Every so often, he’d look over at the Okay Couch, where I was allowed so sit, and his breath would catch because he was very sad. I tried to nuzzle him, but my nose just passed through his hand.
“What’s happening? I don’t understand,” I said.
The person sighed. “You can’t be with him right now, Buddy. I’m sorry. It’s the way of things.”
I thought about this. “So it’s like My Person is on the Person Bed, and I’m not allowed there?” I said.
“Exactly like that,” the person said. “But he can be with you someday. If you choose to wait for him.”
“Of course I want to wait for him!” I said. Not wait for My Person? Who did this person think he was talking to?
“Hold on, Buddy,” the person said. He seemed sad about this for some reason. “It’s not that simple. You have a choice.” He got down on one knee and he looked into my eyes. “There are bad things in this world, Buddy. Very bad things.”
“Like Neighbor Cat?”
“So much worse than her, Buddy.” He waved his hand, and I saw what he was talking about. He showed me dark things, that were like snakes and rats, only worse. Worse than the Sucking Machine. Worse than the Sharp Place. They smelled evil.
“These are the things that want to hurt him, Buddy. They want to hurt everybody. So you can wait for him, or you can keep him safe. But if you choose to keep him safe, then you can’t see him again.”
“What, never?” I said.
The person nodded. “Never, Buddy. I’m sorry. Those are the Rules. It’s a terrible choice.”
I looked at my paws. I didn’t want to not see My Person ever again. But I wanted to keep him safe even more.
“I know what I have to do,” I said, and the person waved his hand, and all of a sudden we were in a place with there were as many dogs as I have every seen before. More, even.
“These are all the Good Boys who chose to keep Their People safe,” the person said.
I looked at them all. I couldn’t believe it, still. “But there’s so many of us!” I said. “How many Good Boys are here?”
The person looked down at me. He smiled, but I could tell he was also partly very sad.
“All of you, Buddy. Every single one.”
Downward Dogs
Yoga’s Culture of Sexual Abuse: Nine Women Tell Their Stories
The above link tells the story of 9 women who spent time with Pattabhi Jois, the father of Ashtanga Yoga.
‘Whether they spent days, months, or years with Jois, all of the women describe an environment in which the guru was permitted to freely assault his female students.’
Sorry if you thought i was going to share how holy and spiritual Ashtanga yoga is.
In their own words, ‘It’s okay’ was the common response they got when they shared their unfortunate incidents with the yoga community.
Fact is Pattabhi Jois was a fucking asshole that displayed a holier-than-thou appearance of saviour on the outside, while violating women who came to seek him to learn something, like most ‘Godmen’ or cult gurus.
Then there’s the other famous asshole – Bikram Yoga founder Bikram Choudhury, who actually tried to copyright yoga. Of course his copyright claim got shut down, deservedly, by a federal court.
‘Born in Kolkata in 1946, he claimed to have been invited to America by Richard Nixon, and to have taught yoga to the Beatles and Nasa astronauts. He once told a class that he invented the disco ball.’ He also claimed to have launched Michael Jackson’s career.
I don’t want to smack this guy against a wall, i want to smack people who believe impostors like him against a wall.
When confronted by a journalist on camera about the rape allegations, he went on to say ‘Why do I have to harass women? People spend $1m for one drop of my sperm.’
Don’t even get me started on Baba Ramdev.
The scene isn’t very different today. Now there’s a million yogis and hence a billion scary stories. All you have to do is spend a few weeks talking to the naive young girls who’ve landed in Rishikesh ‘The Yoga Capital of The World’ from all around the world for their teacher’s certificates, to heal their broken hearts, to escape an abusive husband, etc.
Sometimes they leave with no certificate, but a full blown case of herpes.
The last time I was there for barely 8 days, a counsellor i met had spoken to 12 women that contracted STDs. Two holy yogis were counting bars in prison, when the number should ideally be a few dozens. Most women who’ve gone through a terrible episode are either ashamed to talk about it, or threatened into silence, so a lot of the scumbags roam free feeling invincible. Toxic masculinity and bro-culture thrives like virus.
Is it that men can’t resist abusing a small amount of power they may have over meek subjects?
Yes, absolutely.
Forgive me for the generalization, but good yogis do exist. And all one has to do is some research about their yoga school of choice, or ask people. I’m all ears if you want to know where to learn yoga and get your certification. But it’s most certainly not Rishikesh, unless you get into 5 or 6 of the good ones where there aren’t any vampire flesh lusting garbage men. Some of them are on hoardings bigger than the hoardings for the latest iPhone.
Most yoga schools there, and around India, don’t even give you a recognized certificate cos they go to the local printer and get some sheet of paper laminated and handed to you for your $3000. That’s not a fair deal, if you ask me. And if you just google rishikesh yoga, you’ll get over 350 results for ‘yoga retreats’. If that doesn’t smell fishy to you, I’m concerned about your mental state.
Of course, they might teach you how to do the headstand and the downward dog, but really, that alone doesn’t contribute to yoga. There’s much more than some physical twisting and bending and showing off. There’s much more to yoga than your yoga mat and your yoga pants. I could write a book about this subject but for now i’ll leave it at that and request you to do your research. There’s a handful of good schools around India that make your time, energy, and hard-earned money worth it. There are teachers who’ve made it their life purpose to TRY to awaken you beyond your fractal geometry neon designer yoga pants.
And while you’re at it, also do some research about where your money goes. There are ample yoga schools sending your money to religious fanatic outfits, in return for promotion and ‘legal certification’ and good terms. Like how the Mafia collected money ‘for protection’.
Yoga is a beautiful and unbelievably humbling art form (unless one is like Bikram who has a Hollywood mansion and 50 cars). Yoga has, and will continue to help a lot of people on their paths, including me and many I know. But the world we’re living in today, like I said, is infested by a lot of vampires. So be careful of the messenger. I wish you all the best and nothing but love and light on your yogic endeavours.
I’m off to teach my next class, ciao.
*** people perverting the journey is not just an observation in yoga, it also exists in any form of art or spirituality or science – it’s a disease called ‘man’, leaving his stink on anything serene ***
Good Doggie
Mickey was our dog at my grandma’s house when we were kids. My brother and I, the whole family – we loved him. We got to see that handsome son of a bitch only once a year, for a few weeks during our summer holidays. He would jump with joy when we came on holidays and howl in angst on the last day when he saw our suitcases packed for the flight back to Oman.
But this story isn’t about Oman or Mickey or my brother or the extended family of 10 during those holidays. It’s about the unsuspecting postman and untied chains.
You see, those holidays, I always slept in one of the rooms on the ground floor. Mickey was tied at night to the window in that room. So I went to sleep petting him through the window, and he slept after he’d licked my face a couple of times through the grills. Some mornings he’d be fast asleep when I woke up, and on some he’d be a restless little fucker moving around a hundred times to find his comfy spot. One such morning, when he’d rattled the grills with his belt a dozen times and disturbed my sleep, I thought it’d be better to just untie him. I love my sleep too much.
Now he had the habit of barking at the guy who brought fish around to the house, the newspaper guy, postman, etc. like most dogs. But since he was always tied, they’d snigger at him and get on with their jobs and move to the next house. On this day though, the postman wasn’t so lucky.
Mickey was untied and nobody had a clue.
I woke up with a start when I heard the guy scream. Mickey made a run for him. As I looked out the window, the hundred different letters from his bag were still hovering over the ground, still landing on earth in slow motion, like a paper-storm. Mickey of course, only ran until the point where he was stood. By then the postman had dropped everything in his hands, sprinted like speedy Gonzales, and fallen into a ditch many yards away. When Mickey saw that, he stopped running and barking, calmly turned around and came back to his spot like his job had been done. The intruder had been scared away. Good doggie.
I was 8 years old but even then I knew I had to lie to save myself some spanking from mum, so I told everyone I had NO IDEA how Mickey was freed. It was some spirit dog at night that untied him. Either that or Mickey was the smartest chain-untying dog in the world.
the chronicles 