Let's get Leh'd

My homage to the only man who could makes depravity an art form—Charles Bukowski

Fancy some Hummus in Leh?
We walked out,
I needed some hummus,
She walked where we did,
Her face wouldn’t have started wars, nor would it have ended any.
Her face did stir my deep desires.
I moved away, she moved toward,
Our fingers brushed.
We passed each other,
I turned around, she didn’t.
We walked in,
I needed some hummus.


It is all a conspiracy, believe me.

The city, the dusty boring city is 10050 meters above mean sea level. The climb up to the illustrious castle, in disrepair, was steep. The other two were racing each other—a gym rat race. Those with beer bellies flopping in the breeze, like yours truly, can’t race gym rats. They do, however, pass judgments.
I was running out of breath. I was at the top. Still wheezing, I was shown a village, still within the rehabilitation project.
“We should scream—Screw you Chinese bastards—just for the sake of it,” I said, expecting my comment to be received with quiet contempt that my observations had received through the last three days. I didn’t give a royal, flying fuck.
“Why?” she asked.
“Maybe, that crater is,” I pointed to an unmade foundation hole, “shelled by the Chinese and the government didn't tell you,” baiting her to ignore. She didn’t. “You call yourself a journalist?” she asked.

Vocal contempt! I loved the punishment.

“You shouldn’t believe everything your government tells you, it usually lies,” I told her.
“Don’t tell anyone you are a journalist,” she replied.

There were several instances I could have narrated where senior, expert journalists trusted the government and were left with their foot in the mouth, but this was getting funny. The quiet cultural floozies versus me. The fight begins.

She narrated the same story to him. He loved the punishment met out to me. I loved it too, but my pleasure wasn’t where they felt it was.

“Maybe it was a water balloon,” he smirked. The two looked at me. Laughing, mocking, looking down at me.
“I know, that is a foundation site, you guys have no imagination.” I explained. Why did I explain? I wanted them to keep pushing themselves down that road. But then, I had a propeller up my ass and enthusiasm is overvalued.

They exchanged meaningful glances.

A few days ago, both, had spat and ridiculed the concept of masochism. Now both, shamelessly, indulged in it. Oh the irony of it all.

I got up, ran towards them and pushed them off the cliff, my arms wrapped around them. The wind whistled in my ears. They cried, screamed, the ground was approaching. Gravity, my friend, is an ugly, unforgiving bitch. We were going to be the proverbial pulp on the sidewalk.

"Imagination, creativity makes you flexible, expands your horizons. Letting the child take over doesn't make you stupid, it gives you perspective... a smile, try it," I bellowed over the wind and the screams.

“Let’s go, there is a climb left,” he said as he prepared himself for the ascent. She eagerly followed. She always followed.

My knee hurt, so did my ankle.
“Fuck you. Fuck you,” I told my knee. It wouldn’t take my weight.
Mind over matter, the stupa awaited us. Fucking Gumpa.


P.S: This isn't meant to offend anyone. I am not complaining. I loved every second of my journey up and, then subsequently, down. It was something that could be best described as, how a dear friend would call it, flash fiction.