Para Aravind Enrique Adyanthaya, maestro de este género
A few tokes from the pipe were more than enough to calm my nerves and anxiety after the 20 or so hours of flight that I endured to be in an ancestral land, enjoying the company of older family members that I have only known in pictures and younger cousins who were bred to drink, fuck, marry, run the family business and then breed. This long line of tasks is culturally sanctioned and is basically the only functional tie that binds me to my elders; some of which fought lions, never wore shoes and built the roads that we youngsters have filled with coke bottles and condom wrappers. Cocaine is no good here. It fucks up your ability to digest curry and makes you want to slap a few beggars as you stroll through the marketplace in search for some good opiates: a politically sanctioned practice. I have yet to figure out how this trip is going to turn out. Walking towards the huge tent where more than two hundred guests, twenty-seven servants and eight musicians churning some bhangra tunes await for me I start to feel a bit cold in my hands and pause briefly to examine my pointy shoes which are now covered in mud and shit. I feel an urgent need to know which is it ‘cause the smell of this dung is inebriating—it might come in handy. Today I fall in line with the rest of them. Drinking and fucking have been crossed off the list. In about an hour, seven rounds around a blaring fire are going to take care of the next one. Man, am I jonesing a hit right about now.