Asia is a camel. When Asia is pregnant of another Asia, it carries it in India. I am there. I am right there where the conception has taken place. All I can hear are the movements of this universal phoetus. Liquid movements. A creation moving in a womb. I am in a desertic area off Bikaner, Rajasthan. I, a guide and a boy. For fourty minutes I've thought they'd leave me here to sleep alone , but they are back now. If the boy shuts up, I'd be glad. The camels are two sleeping sphynxes. I have my thoughts, good or bad, it doesnt matter. I am as complicated as the entire creation. I am Marco, and I am here. I've cut a pineapple with the favour of the night. I've pierced the skin, deepened my knife into the pulp like a thief of vitamins, sucking up the warm juice and the yellow colour. In the desert I've laid down and looked at the deep blue sky. White clouds forming up. The noise of a continent has disappeared. In the desert I dont need to think. I need to close my eyes and let my mind graze on this beloved mother earth.
For the first time I took off my shoes and sockes and walked proudly into the temple. It happened like that, after more than a month, let alone in the dirtiest of all places. Thousands of rats running around and people feeding them. Holy creatures. Giant bowls of milk for the rodents to quench their thirst, rats smelling each other's ass, climbing up gates, running after someone else's tail. I prayed into the rat temple.
Today, I have bought a turbant. A flash pink turbant. I should wear a vest along with it.
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