INDIA – THE GREAT G8
No matter how hard the Universe tries to drag you anywhere, your shameless nature, worse than a twelve-year-old girl, opposes vocations. You are a dummy, and for society there is no difference whether you are now standing in three nights somewhere in the middle of India, are you killed now in three nights somewhere in the middle of India, do love volcanoes explode inside you, or are you harder than any piece of roti on trash can. – Valek averted his eyes. “Yes, even if we are now buried alive in a nearby ditch by local gangsters, I will absolutely not give a damn, like this entire galaxy.”
We crumpled time on the outskirts of the barbarous city of Mangal-Saray and let loose rings in the sky – the train was already four hours late, and could be delayed another hour, ten hours, two days, since India is the most crumpled time in the world. Because of this, the people around were happy, and we risked being late for the plane from Delhi to Kashmir, which worried us much less than soaring nonsense in the air.
There was a roar of the engine, and a blinding beam of light hit the eyes. We were surrounded by a crowd of strong Indians and demanded clarification. Every day, several night murders were committed on the railway bridge, we were white, and the Indians were policemen who firmly demanded to get out of here.
Two hours later, the train station met two fools with smog of human flesh and escorted the guilty train to the closing doors. Everyone came into the car with his own – Valek with a pack of crackers the size of a backpack worth thirty rupees, and I thought that he was damn right with his bosh.
Along the way, the driver tried to maximize at every convenient turn, in honor of which we, familiar with the second-class Indus and who made teas from running boys, only arrived at Gray Delhi railway station, from which not only the whitening face was gray, but also the open soul . The plane already wickedly waving a wing to us from the air, so we headed straight to the main market of Delhi, where we entered the expensive hotel in the heart of the capital of 350 rupees per person.
The main market of the main city of India captures all the organs of perception at a glance: you simply can not stand here for more than five seconds, the cabin of a drunken motor rickshaw or donkey’s hoof from a slipped carriage will willingly correct this misunderstanding. Once you have arrived in the country, you simply must stew in this rice porridge according to all the rules of evaporation.
When the arrows passed through midnight, the streets changed their clothes from human to hungry animals and petty thieves, and our bellies appealed pleadingly to the hosts, we moved to the deserted streets of Delhi in search of bars and adventures, tasting the nightlife. A few hours later, Valek and a half-bitted sneaker, miraculously saved from a fanged dog, burst into the room a few hours later, while I was to have a solemn night with the opportunity to return only to seven-thirty in the morning. At this time, the condition of my friend was very depressing: he had been ill the last time two years ago, with his every gesture, he radiated the embodiment of an affliction. It is clear that his immunity was going to deal with him after lunch, or a maximum of afternoon tea. In five minutes, we decided that the plane was too small for the two of us and we should fly to the mountains strictly alone. I went to the train with me, which was most welcome, Valentin locked himself up in Delhi with a laptop and was busy working for several days.
My hands were shaken, tears wept, the bodies agreed that maybe they would someday meet on a remote patch of Hindustan, and my holes in running shoes, swallowing road dust, headed straight for the airport named after Indira Gandhi. The backpack behind his back was much easier to realize the burden that this evening, together with the owner, this portfolio would have to be alone, without overnight stay, somewhere at the foot of the mountains.
With a sob, the turbine of the plane began to purr Carloson, and until between the wheels and the runway the air layer squeezed in, I managed to read a couple of slate marks left two hours earlier on a crumpled piece of notebook:
“I looked to the left – fertile skyscrapers, built to modern standards, in which it is impossible to live without comfort, grew out of luxurious gardens, where people eat every moment and enjoy life – it was all my perfectly built love and relationships according to all canons of harmony.
I looked to the right – half-floor huts built of cow shit, stolen bricks, collapsed concrete blocks and dry reeds, one to another went beyond the horizon. Garbage is constantly being poured in here, and the more they burn it, the more it becomes. Smoke of waste, irrevocability and crying forever enveloped the endless slums – embodied by my today perishing senses.
I looked right and immediately recoiled – a dilapidated clunker whose passenger I was fortunate enough to be, almost crashed and struck closely against the oncoming, racing car. Drove spitefully spit thick saliva and vtopil with even greater foolishness. The wreck sped twice as fast as the missing road could allow, and the faster we drove, the faster the blood boiled in our veins.