So these words are like flies buzzing around the corpse of memories. Having met with Mahesh again yesterday afternoon to discuss the so-called PR for this book I wrote, I go from relief after our meeting to waking up in a cold sweat this morning . When we meet he sits on his blackberry tapping away as though there is no one else in the room. There is Mahesh, daughter Pooja and an elderly gentleman with a beard sitting quietly taking all this in. I have been wandering around the city appearing busy while searching for unfindable galleries that supposedly exist, wondering when this habit will leave me. ( Of course it comes in handing when you have fuck all to do, so there is that). Meanwhile, as I sit in that room it occurs to me that unless I have a sound bullet to deliver to snap Mahesh’s attention away from his device temporarily, I will continue to be a rather unwieldy piece of furniture in the room. The sensation that I am nobody, and don’t want to beg someone to help me to be somebody everyone notices washes over me. On occasion, Mahesh awakens from the hypnotic trance of the electronic dream world to deliver a ponderous observation about the situation… “I think that they will not reply on a saturday… ” and goes back to the device. FInally, with a sinking sensation I throw it out there, my escape plan. “Mahesh, I think if there is nothing more to be done here, I feel I am fucking around with no anchor in Mumbai, which has a charm and all of that, but… Well just waiting around here for the Penguins to get their shit together and push me into the public eye seems a tad futile. I know they will answer your calls, but I do not fool myself that I am anything but an unknown entity… what do I do in the mean time?” He smiles and agrees heartily. “I think you have become a burden to me and I to yourself and you should follow your instinct and fuck off out of here.” This is not delivered as an insult or taken as such, although it does sting a tiny bit. The simple fact is that I want to ‘getoutofthisplace’ as UG used to say. Since the publishers and Mahesh talk between them selves, which is probably the best thing anyway, that leaves me wandering around Mumbai with nothing to do, and for sure Mumbai is not a pleasant place for that sensation. Mahesh confirms this, thundering, “You’ve written a book about a man no one wants to listen to!” He leaves this hanging in the air, we smile and he continues, “You left the room once, now you must let the dead die also!” He encourages me to write about what I have become, a person adrift, out to sea, cut off from the past, passing me back that metaphor I used to love from Ramakrishna, about the salt doll dissolving in the sea. This pleasant daydream image has become the theme of my life as the things I hang on to dissolve around me. This whole notion of making a fortune on some book is just another delusion, illusion that will get carried away down stream once I step away. The relief is palpable as I take my leave without ceremony. He barely acknowledges my exit, which beats the back slapping bullshit most people habitually perform in these moments. Life goes on, his life, my life, independent events that carry you out and into nowhere like it or not. I can’t stand being in Mumbai one minute longer yet when I wake up the next morning, the torture is, “Have I left some stone unturned?” The publishers will do what they do, am I now condemning myself to a life of poverty because I am impatient with this bullshit world of PR? More word flies buzzing around my head, buzzing around dream corpses stinking up the space I occupy if I let them. Time to take out the trash, move on, vamoose, hasta la vista, mach schnell, ‘getoutofthisplace’!

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to

  1. christna9 says:

    Dear Louis, i am really sorry to read this.all the best.You did your best and the rest is not in your hands.happy to order the book online.Probably it is the last book i’m going2read/study….. Gopi. BGkrishna


  2. Moya says:

    God you sound like Jeff Foster!…the great mind. Knows how to write…but just can’t die.

    • Moya says:

      Louis…because I like should listen to a wonderful song called ‘Heaven’ by Talking Heads…works for me every time. XX

  3. Charlotte says:

    I didn’t feel sorry at all when I read this; just glad you nailed something so precisely. Of course it means nothing except that, but for me, that’s a lot. And Jeff Foster who can’t die? Well, I have never read him, but WHO THE FUCK KNOWS HOW TO DIE until they do? What I do not get in your piece is someone trying to die some spiritual death. Life kills us, that’s all, in one way or another, and those who write might choose to describe that experience. I do think Heaven is a great song.

Leave a Reply to christna9 Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s