Thursday, September 10, 2009
Mad about India
I'm going to India, again.
A friend of mine said her daughter was India-mad and would I be blogging? Yes, I would.
I am mad about India. I am at mad at India. India is mad at me. It is madness to go to India. It is mad not to go. Madness is an aspect of love in that love is not a rational phenomena. Salman Rushdie said on CBC the other day that he loves India, and he goes back over and over again because it's an endless source of story and that he comes back with bulging notebooks. I go back to hunt for some method in the madness that is half my life. I don't expect to find it, but I make plans anyway just in case I find some jewel, some method with some symmetry. My father. It is because of him that I am half Indian. Bengali in fact. It is because of him that I go back to India look for signs, clues, look for justice, poetic or otherwise, and I look for symmetry in our joint story.
And much less sublimely, going to India is fun. Lots of fun. It rudely tosses out my pastel existence and covers me in a strong shade of vermillion diesel studded with aluminum paan condiment wrappers.
A friend of mine said her daughter was India-mad and would I be blogging? Yes, I would.
I am mad about India. I am at mad at India. India is mad at me. It is madness to go to India. It is mad not to go. Madness is an aspect of love in that love is not a rational phenomena. Salman Rushdie said on CBC the other day that he loves India, and he goes back over and over again because it's an endless source of story and that he comes back with bulging notebooks. I go back to hunt for some method in the madness that is half my life. I don't expect to find it, but I make plans anyway just in case I find some jewel, some method with some symmetry. My father. It is because of him that I am half Indian. Bengali in fact. It is because of him that I go back to India look for signs, clues, look for justice, poetic or otherwise, and I look for symmetry in our joint story.
And much less sublimely, going to India is fun. Lots of fun. It rudely tosses out my pastel existence and covers me in a strong shade of vermillion diesel studded with aluminum paan condiment wrappers.
