Reggae - From Pondicherry

As I contemplated and mentally composed my Daily Work, the Marley song came to mind:

Said I'm a living man,

I've got WORK to do,

And if you're not happy, children,

Then you must be BLUE.

These words come to mind everyday, really; but what was unusual today is that I sang the rest of the song:

But I'm a REBEL,

SOUL REBEL,

I'm a capturer,

SOUL ADVENTURER.

I laughed out loud!


I guess I must be a Real Soul Adventurer to be out here in Pondicherry.


[You can watch the YouTube video of this Great Song here.]


Anyway, last night was great fun. It was just me and the sadhu - and we talked about wonderful things. Like chillums smoked on the way to Amarnath - a pilgrimage the sadhu has undertaken, and which he remembers well. He says they smoked big chillums all the way there. And I remarked that wasn't it strange they send 3000 armed soldiers to protect chillum smokers on the way to Amarnath - but then, as soon as they return to the plains, they send 10,000 armed policemen to see that no chillums are smoked, and even the ganja-charas farmers' fields are burnt!


He laughed, the sadhu, but in his eyes I could see that he felt the tragic irony of it all. 


We were drinking alcohol, the two of us.


I then told him of my trip to Gangotri - and how I drove there via Mussoorie to Uttarkashi, along the blue-green Yamuna. And how the Yamuna was such a clean river while the Ganga is muddy even at Gangotri. The sadhu had visited Gangotri too, so he knew what I was talking about. 


I asked the sadhu why would sadhus of ages past choose the muddy river to be sacred, while ignoring the clean, blue-green one.


We decided that it must be quite like the street in front of us - where the river of humanity flows. Lots of MUD in this River of Humanity. Lots of fraud sadhus, too - and he laughed, again. 


Yes, I added: 


Lots of fraud doctors.


Lots of fraud journalists.


Lots of fraud economists.


LOTS OF MUD.


Best thing to do is to let the River of Humanity run FREE - so that the mud washes out into the sea.


This morning was different. I went by bus to Tindivanam to buy some grass. The road was good - but the bus was not. 


We need to retire old buses and use new, modern ones on these new highways.


But the grass was fuck-all.


The guy who accompanied me is an interesting fellow: a Chettinad (extremely fiery cuisine) cook who has worked in Singapore and Malaysia and speaks a smattering of English, well enough for us to be able to communicate. But there was an unfortunate kitchen accident in which he was seriously injured - and his career got fucked. So, now he makes a few bucks cooking here and there, in Pondicherry. Poor chap. But a Good Soul.


His plight reminded me of the Dylan song:

Just then the whole kitchen

Exploded from Boiling Fat.

Food was flying everywhere,

I left without my hat.