Rainy Night in Rajasthan.

I don’t understand your relationship. I do not understand you guys at all.

Like, at all.

It’s like 1 AM. Or 1:30 AM. Thereabouts.

We’re sitting at a table in a dimly-lit restaurant.

It’s this strange open-air restaurant that looks like someone set up chairs, tables and a kitchen in a roadside space intended for a fire station.

Is it still raining? I’m not sure. We’re sitting next to a concrete wall on one end, so I don’t hear anything to my right. Around me to my left, there are voices of people chattering in Hindi. Or maybe Rajasthani, I’m not sure.

There are Indian voices here and there. Someone exchanging pleasantries with the cashier at the entrance. Groups of Indian guys discussing in a local language. A waiter yelling details of an order at the guy making food in the kitchen.

I’m low-key wondering why this otherwise normal-seeming restaurant is open and is this active at 1:30 AM, but right now that’s just one of the things that feel strange.

I’m munching on my bowl of Pulav.

I think the bowl is weird. It seems like stainless steel, but the thickness feels strange to me. It feels like it was made out of the exact same sheet of metal as a bunch of stainless steel spoons. I’m not sure how exactly to explain it. The metal just feels the way a steel spoon or a fork does in your hand.

It’s strange. I feel like I’m eating from a bowl that really should be a number of spoons.

Very strange.

He responds to my comment on his relationship.

“Yeah- when it comes to money, that’s a different matter. We think of things differently when money is involved.”

I’m still pretty perplexed.

About an hour ago we were at their lodging in Old City – in more central Udaipur.

He was telling me about how his Kenyan girlfriend could get pretty possessive of him. Not wanting him to get too close to Indian girls. Apparently he was still sneaking around though – he said someone still gave him her number earlier in the evening. An Indian girl. That he had to save it under a male-looking name, or something like that. To throw off suspicion.

About thirty minutes later we were standing outside Glanza– a nightclub/bar on the outskirts of Udaipur. We were both very drenched from riding on his moped through the unexpected rain – giddy from jumping up in the air when we hit speed-bumps on the highway. Speed-bumps we could barely see coming through the blinding army of stinging raindrops that assaulted us.

We were standing in a more enclosed area, drying ourselves out and getting some respite from the downpour. He was telling me about some drug-dealing trouble he got in, back in Jaipur.

He said people did different things to earn money. He said there are a good number of married Indian women who aren’t sexually satisfied in their marriages. And so they pay younger men to have sex with them. He said he did that every now and then, and that it paid well. That they really liked black guys. He said there was even an app for it.

In my head I was like Okay, don’t even bother telling me the name of the app pls. That’s enough info right there, thank you very much hah.

I personally prefer more fulfilling and inspiring ways of earning money.

It just seemed strange to me that his possessive girlfriend who always tried to keep him away from Indian girls, was fine with him having sex with older Indian women for money.

“Yeah, she knows about it. She’s okay with it.”


I heard what he said, but it did not make sense to me.

He was on a call about five minutes ago. We were sipping on beers, waiting for our food to be ready.

I was in a conversation with someone a few days ago who mentioned something I found very interesting. He said a good number of Indians enrolled in PhD programs in public Indian universities, just for the accommodation. He said tuition in government universities was so subsidized, that people enrolled in Doctorate programs just so they would have a place to stay while they worked on something else – possibly studying for International exams so they could travel out of the country. They wouldn’t attend class, nothing. Just make use of the school lodging. And he said it was normal. That even some of the lecturers had done that.

I thought that was really interesting, and I brought it up while we waited for the food. He just completed his Master’s degree at a private university here in India. He came from Nigeria for school. I was curious if people also did that stuff at private universities, or if there was some other variant of it there.

We were discussing that, when the call came in.

He answered his phone. It was his girlfriend.

When we headed out for food and beers about an hour ago, she said she was going to a nightclub.

She was now calling him from the club.

Oh. He’s asking for that? Tell him he’s going to have to pay extra for that.

Hm. I’m not sure what “he” is asking for. I’m not sure what “that” is.

But I have an idea.

Someone at the nightclub is requesting for paid sexual activity with her. She’s calling her boyfriend for negotiation advice.

They discuss on the phone a bit more, and then the call ends when they come to some sort of an agreement on what to do.

Our food is here now.

I’m munching on my Pulav, scooping up interesting spoons of rice and vegetables from the strange steel bowl that should be spoons.

He’s sitting across the table from me, munching on some unrecognisable Indian dish. Hearing my perspective on their relationship.

I do not understand you guys at all.

Like, at all.

Image: Somewhere in Udaipur.

Of Rain Battered Windshields and Enthusiastic Sex Workers.

We are going to die.

We are going to fucking die.

It is raining heavily. The windshield is rendered worryingly translucent by the barrage of splattering raindrops that seem to just pour out of the darkness ahead of us.

There are no streetlamps, and the night is completely dark.

The windshield wiper is non-functional, and so there seems to be no way to periodically wipe away the film of water that threatens to take both of our lives this night by obscuring the highway ahead.

We are going to die.

We are going to fucking die.

The car is moving at a considerably high speed. I do not know how fast exactly we are going. This guy’s speedometer is broken.

How can he see anything? His headlamps are on, but the path ahead of us is almost entirely obfuscated by the relentless rain.

If someone stood five feet in front of the car and raised three fingers up in the air, discerning how many fingers were up wouldn’t be the problem. The problem would be that it would be difficult to even see the human being standing there in the first place.

And yet this guy at the wheel is throttling the vehicle without a care in the world.

We are going to die.

We are going to fucking die.




Handsome man! Let’s go to my room!

She caresses my arm and gently pulls me towards her.

Where did you say they sell the drinks?

We’re almost there. It’s right up ahead.

Okay okay.

I free myself from her pull.

I’m still around, don’t worry! I’m still around!

She gradually pulls away her gaze and then continues discussing with some people- people who I believe are prospective customers.




Olamide’s “Don’t Stop” is playing.

Two guys are dancing in the middle of the dancefloor. One is considerably tall, and the other is relatively smaller. Their chemistry is interesting. They’re facing each other and making stylish poses and smiling. They both have bandanas on, and they’re both wearing some white. Their chemistry is very interesting. I’m smiling in my seat.


Handsome man! Come let’s go to my room!

She softly rubs my jeans in a sensitive area.

For some reason I’ve been catching the attention of the sex workers in this place.

I’m not quite sure why that is.

Such a sexual arrangement is not going to be healthy, very exciting or satisfying for me.

I’m sorry, I still intend to spend more time listening to the music.




Where did you go? I came to the car but I didn’t see you!

Haha I was probably somewhere attending to the stimulants I bought. Now I’m just in here enjoying my high.

Okay okay, open the passenger’s door. This rain is annoying.

It’s open it’s open.


I get in.



I’m not quite sure what to do next with this blog.

On the one hand, I find it not just exciting but very psychologically beneficial to have a place where I can express myself, retrospectively walk through my thinking process, and  recount events in my life in some detail. And making such expression publicly accessible gives a feeling that is markedly different from private journalling.

But on the other hand, I’m beginning to get increasingly concerned that somehow some information I implicitly or explicitly make available here could somehow be used to constitute problems for me in my life. I’m not quite sure how, but I feel the possibility exists.

And so I’m currently weighing the entire thing. Pros versus possible cons. And I should not have to wait for the actualization of an undesirable eventuality before I make modifications. So now I’m thinking about how I can make preemptive adjustments. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about the whole thing.

Suggestions are welcome. Suggestions are very welcome. Please feel free to give feedback. Thanks.



A different night.