Life

Life, it could be said, is like a road through the perceptible universe. Though each life has a single beginning, each holds infinite possibilities, and at any moment there can be a fork in this great branching path. Some of these forks are clearly posted; we understand their implications. The realization of this phenomenon gives us free will, reason. Other forks are unclear, inscrutable, hidden. Events unfold and our lives take turns we never expected. Contemplating on these mysteries we conjure destiny, or the will of God. I reflected on these matters a great deal, as I tried to pinpoint the exact moment in my life that I became the man I find myself to be today. How, I wondered, did I become a man who was uncertain whether having a skull and a flaccid penis waved in my face should be a cause for alarm?

But to understand the great moments in life, we must first grasp the everyday. You may wonder, when not at toil on his travel guide labors, what does a philosopher/hip-hop legend like myself do with his free time? Well, tonight for instance, I stayed in, sewed a pouch and attempted to watch televised cricket.

I've been spending more and more time just chilling about, starting to actually act like I live in India. I talk to kids a lot. Kids are always fun. When linguistic difficulties arise, silly faces are always appreciated. Once they reach the teenage years though, things are different.

Westernization is an odd thing. It is never the adoption of Western customs by another culture, but rather the adoption of what that culture perceives to be Western customs. The results are typically hilarious. Hip young Indian teenagers, males in particular, embody this phenomenon to a fault. The typical fashion of young middle-class men here could be described as A-Capella-Singer-Meets-Jersey-Guido. It's truly horrendous. In addition to their meticulously greased hair, they invariably carry sunglasses, which are rarely used to shield themselves from sunlight but are constantly lowered over the face for over-serious inpromptu photo-shoots. American Eagle is huge in India. For weeks I've marveled at how these people could possibly watch Western media and then emulate it so ridiculously. Then I saw MTV India.

Indian TV in general is patently absurd, being a potpourri of religious programming, news broadcasts in various languages, Bollywood movies, Bollywood gossip, and cricket. On MTV India a watched a show called "Rock On" which is basically an American Idol/Rock Band hybrid from hell. The one act I watched was a self-described "fusion" group, that sounded like Hindi pop (itself egregious enough in its own right) being double-teamed by Incubus and Linkin Park. India is essentially in 1999. As I walked through the new city in Allahabad I saw a place named F.R.I.E.N.D.S Cafe, the entire premises plastered with promo shots of the cast of "Friends" circa season 7. I don't think Rachel even had the baby yet. Ugh. India is so backwards it's disgusting.

Cultural exchange is in many ways selective. The adopting culture largely picks and chooses those elements of the foreign that appeal to it, and add their own touches in ways that truly tickle the heart. I could only smile at the elaborate red and yellow military garb and turban worn by Pizza Hut security.

When I ask Indian people which their favorite American movies are, I typically get three responses. The younger ones are fond of the Harry Potter and Spiderman series. The third movie, much beloved amongst middle-aged Indians, is Jesus Christ Superstar. At first I was flummoxed. Then one man explained to me "Is like Bollywood movie!" Very true, very true.

Goofy-looking marching bands are ubiquitous and amusing enough, but I have started to notice (although notice may be too subtle a word) that Indians have somehow come to believe that it is a good idea to mount a dozen automated tubas to the back of a truck. And this is only the beginning of the atrocities. Now hitting the Indian interwebs is YouTube sensation "Happy Feet", except because Indians aren't really feeling the Crunk, the video is awkwardly set to a Hindi-language cover of "I like to move it, move it". If this continues it will be mere decades before half of India decides to become Amish.

I have time to write about these little observations because my article about Allahabad took about twenty minutes. Allahabad, you see, is a very holy place where the sacred Yamuna river which I have essentially been following for a week meets the even more sacred Ganges as well as the mystical subterranean Saraswati (river of enlightenment). As such, it is the host of the world's largest religious festival, the Maha Khumbh Mela, which last time it was held drew in excess of 17 million people to a single spot, probably marking the single largest gathering of humanity in history.

That is all you need to know about Allahabad, other than that it sucks and you shouldn't go there. There is nothing to see and nothing to do. The holy Kumbh Mela ground is a big-ass patch of mud and rest of the city is crap. More pilgrims, more rickshaws, more fucking cows. Save yourselves the trouble.

Ghostface Buddha: going to Allahabad so you don't have to.

All this came of course after a gruelling 12-hour train ride in "Sleeper Class", which is clearly a codeword for "WWII-era Red Army surplus." These carriages could serve no purpose originally but to ferry a totalitarian empire's troops to the front. Which brings us back to today's train ride. Failing to locate the carriage for which I had a reservation, I slipped at the last moment onto a "Second Class" carriage, which is the worst type of carriage in India. I do not recommend Second Class. For starters, it becomes so overcrowded that passengers crowd onto the floor, lying under seats, and clambering like monkeys onto the luggage racks for lack of space. In lieu of the personal teapots and newspapers served by silly-hat-wearing attendants in "AC Chair Class" is a rotating cast of beggars, chickpea-sellers, and tea-peddlers at each station. When worst comes to worst, a religious ascetic may harangue you in Hindi while first shaking a mongoose skull at you until the ineffectiveness of this communicative technique forces him to resort to waggling his noodle-like ash-covered penis in your face.

How, I ask again, did my life come to this?