Weather Update

Last night, an acquaintance got small talking, 

it’s something acquaintances apparently do, 

and I’ve only just recently come to realise

there’s no gentle way to ask someone to fuck off,

so I indulged

in stretching the conversational rubber band.

“What’s with the weather?” he asked,

with politically correct politeness.

It’s the kind of weather

that makes you crave a good cup of tea.

That way you know

if you’d ever be invited over.

But more importantly because,

the one who was supposed to be selling tea

is presently unavailable,

preoccupied selling what a billion and a half

call a democracy, apparently.

I can neither confirm nor deny;

both require documented evidence,

and let’s just say,

our good old grandfather

isn’t particularly fond of paper, 

or as he calls it,

being eco-friendly.

The one thing he hates more than paper

is evidence.

Because imagine

every grandfather having to prove

all the rivers they crossed to get to school,

or the simpler fact

that they ever went to one.

Twelve summers

of broken spines,

jailed mouths,

London Bridges falling down

like architecture fell in love with gravity,

and an army of monkeys

scratching and biting

until you agree

the only colour this country

and its people

could ever bleed

was saffron.

Because crimson

is too reminiscent of criminal evidence,

and by now

we know

dear old grandfather

abhors the idea of evidence.

At an age

most reconsider life choices

and potential osteoarthritis,

dear old grandfather gathers around

his pack of hyenas, 

or as he likes to call them,

the petals of the lotus

he’s the epicentre of.

Lotuses are very specifically precise

to his peer group.

Both thrive in

and from

absolute and utter filth.

Almost as if

they are a walking, talking, breathing

washing machine —

or as he prefers being called,

the geopolitical Ganges

of a nation

being told

its past

is the only future

it ever had.

Dear old grandfather wakes every morning

complaining

how noisy and nosy

his neighbours are,

sipping imported tea

from saffron-embossed porcelain

bought and paid for

with taxes he collects

like inheritance mistaken for birthright.

He doesn’t read newspapers.

Partly because

one can’t quite tell

if he ever learned to read,

but more importantly because

he dislikes anything

that doesn’t have him printed in capitals

across the front page,

the back page,

and every page in between.

Every now and then

he reaches for his designer chappal.

Now don’t you dare judge him

for million-dollar footwear

while he hands you a list

of everything

you shouldn’t be buying,

because greed

is his sole inheritance.

He reaches for those chappals

every time he sees a cockroach.

Word has it

he’s been suffering

a rather severe infestation lately,

and it’s got his cholesterol-choked heart

beating rather fast.

A grandfather however obnoxious

you are taught not to pray ill for,

and we are, after all,

a land of cultured chromosomes,

so we ruin another night’s sleep

breathing through

his audacious farts.

I could have called him an appendix,

but appendices,

when arrogant enough,

can be uprooted overnight.

He is, to be factually precise,

a variant

of the Human Immunodeficiency Virus:

the Hindutva Immunodeficiency Virus.

A potentially lethal,

definitely contagious disease,

mostly spread

through unprotected mindfuckery,

commonly found

in civilisationally virgin nuisances

desperately seeking purpose

through the pointless pride

of a polluted past.

And the most fascinating thing

about the HIV virus

is how effectively

it convinces the body

its own cells

are the enemy.

Because once you wage war

against yourself,

death becomes

a matter of clockwork.

Imagine believing

you’re a martyr,

when all you ever were

was the last nail

in your own fucking coffin.

Imagine drinking cow piss

as beverage,

and still wondering

why your skull,

split open,

smells of stale bullshit

and fresh cow dung.

“I had just asked

what’s with the weather,”

is, I’ve just discovered,

a remarkably efficient way

to lose acquaintances.