"Everybody is going to call everybody back,
As soon as somebody knows something."
-Alex Scott, (untitled)
If the world ever loses its mind,
It will be in India.
It will be in that place,
Where westerners come seeking ancient wisdom,
Amongst inadequate sanitation,
Here for a piece of peace and harmony,
Amongst an amazing symphony of traffic horns,
That will always be unfinished.
If the World ever needs a reality check,
It will be in India,
India the incredible,
Boasting more billionaires,
And impoverished peoples both,
Than any other nation on Earth.
If the world ever needs an enema,
It will be in India because…
It’s in India that shit,
Is goin’ down man,
And on the walls,
In the fires,
Streets, roads, footprints,
And definitely, definitely,
Hitting the fan.
If there’s ever a fuse to be blown,
Or a movie shown,
Song and dance lights showing,
Street poles each wired like whole a phone exchange,
In other countries might seem strange,
It just won’t,
Because, you’ll be in India.
If one time a Sikh, a Muslim, a Hindu and an Atheist,
Are sitting around together this one time,
It won’t be a joke,
It’ll be a peaceable conversation,
And you, will be in India,
Ah ha ha hah.
If everything is gonna be fine,
As long as you don’t look down,
You’ll be in India, my friend.
If there ever was an exception to the rule,
A sore thumb sticking out,
Or something better left unsaid,
It was all in India.
If history never explained anything ever,
Or ever again, yep,
That’d be India too,
Will be trying to find internet connections,
At five past nine in a city of two point three million,
Otherwise fine folks,
And fail foregoing fail-safes,
Hysterically cynically, stiltedly,
Not watching traffic walking,
All the way across jammed intersections,
Oh ah ha hey hey,
How you doing,
Sorry you can’t get through,
Jokes on you,
A ooh ooh ooh,
Get it get it,
What you looking at pal?
Don’t mind me,
I’m just in India.
If there was anything that ever,
Or could, or might,
Or won’t you’ll never know,
Until its way, way too late,
You never know…
It might be…
It might be…
If you really feel like asking why,
But know there’s no-point,
You know what we’re talking about,
With scams and and tricks and hotel touts.
It’s the hair of the dog’s gory story,
In an allegory wagged by the tails,
Of greener grass glass houses green house effecting,
Selective judgment days and nights,
Like the one with the rows of naked children,
Laying right down the side of Chandra chowk,
With you and your own so-called conscience,
Back to sleep you,
By saying it’s all right all right all right,
It’s all right even though you know,
And it’s gonna be,
You know what it is,
And it is just,
Oh and the title? It's in reference to something a fellow traveler at New Delhi airport I disembarked with said, that I couldn’t quite gel into the body of the poem, but really wanted to include. She said to me “Don’t ask why, you’re in India now, there is no ‘why’“. Not to sound smug or jaded, but in all candor, I seriously can’t stress how effective that advice was, having explored some Zen riddles a little while in Nepal, it… kinda… works.
Good night folks.