Coursing through the veins of the Ganges is a vile liquid, a water that robs dolphins of their sight. Oars expose the eddies that seethe underneath and no monsoon can wash the treachery away. On the shore cholera bursts leave one teetering like a newborn goat.
But Rajasthani women are the most beautiful. To question this is to incur the wrath of the warrior caste; men that go forward, forward and only forward. You can't pay a Rajasthani man to leave India. Truth. This is because drought and religion have them held in place there like peanut butter in teeth.
These x and y coordinates intersect inerasably, so pass through the land quickly. Play the guessing game if you must - prison or barracks? or embassy? - but negotiate the terrain with a boxer's feet. And keep your eyes open for there are lessons to be learned in dry Rajasthan, where talk is of honour and loyalty, of piety and charity. Of broken lust.
Three cheers for the land god made when he was young and full of sand: animals, somersaults, bulldog spit.
Written on Friday, 6 January 2012