(Tripfest: The Chaotica series is about what I retrieve after tripping on.. whatever. Didn't get around to explaining that last time. Writing when stoned/drunk/droned is.. unique. This time, it's tharra, meat, and a few joints.)
The bag sat there like some offering from hell oh so resplendent in all its verdant glory. The thing about bags is how they turn out to be doorways to hell, if you've never picked up a stranger's bag then I suggest you don't.
But in the unlikely event that you do then don't stop halfway and open it all the way, let the contents spill out onto your bed and get it into your head that your invading someone else's world (which they don't know about, either) is not really going to affect the universe as a whole so get to it.
I opened the bag or tried to, and tired myself trying. The Problem lay in the heart of the matter that means a devil of avarice was floating not over my shoulder whispering sweet nothings from the ether. No, it was a pure motivation of kleptomania that blanketed the foggy depths of my mind.
Still the bag would not open despite my intentions to simply peek inside the doors of heavenly surprise. I wanted to peek so badly with all the fervour of love once lost and regained but the doors of paradise remained lost to me- me, whom Milton remembered- or was it the other way around? Paradise lost.
But a bag is not paradise in the same way cotton is not cheese or a deer is not a chair. The thing about deer, though, is the venison. I remember having some venison at a cheap little dhaba in a town near Pune and I remember the fleshy juiciness of the meat as I tore into that and sapped at its delectable sweetness while having to pour down some tharra with lemonade. Then the tharra hit me like then thousand fists of arcane fury ringing with all the solidarity of a single peal of the church bell I deign to visit on Sundays. The mysteries of life seem so petty and little to me then, who lay on a cot with hash in the hand, and since I always say hash in the hand is worth two in the tea, then all you want to do is sit down and smoke with me. The universe glittered at my eyes like a mean wench with a saucy stare, the kind that parts you with your money as wonderfully as the Joker parts Batman from his loved ones, or Hush goes ahead to perform a heart transplant on Selina Kyle and gets to say that he stole her heart in more ways than one.
Ah, Hush. Nowhere has a trickster emerged like him who can actually get past Batman on so many levels but then I digress since the bag is what began this post then I may make the most of the confusion my mind is engulfed in and thus try to make some coherent sense of my wrongdoings. I have mislead so many that my mind is more like James Frey's in his memoir A Million Little Pieces, but sorry James Frey; I may not have been the same kind of stoner you were but make no mistake I am in pretty bad shape right now since I must open the file in my Transcend HDD to see what the fucking name of your book was in the first place, and that brings me to my first and final original statement, that the bag wouldn't open.
That is a contradiction in terms since it did. The problem lay in searching for a zip when there was a flap and a flap when there was velcro, and velcro when all there actually was were simple laces tied together and inside that lay my treasure, and my pleasure, and my measure, and my pain, and my little store of rural hash that I needs must smoke with my beedis if I am to have any chance of missing my plane in the morning- so what happened to the unopened bag, that reliquary of relief, that potion of pleasure, my bag of bewilderment, but that it stayed in the corner looking innocent as ever and stared back at me with gimlet irises out of the eyelets that held its laces?
Oh nothing. It opened, like any other bag. Or did it, and my hash is still inside, unsmoked, unspent? Do I dare open its confines again for fear of knowing that I've already finished my store, or do I dare leave it around for less restrained visions to uncover?
While I confine myself to answering that question, I may take my five minutes of peace. I daresay I can find the button that allows me to save this post in the time being. It's not finished like the hair of a devadasi, who needs must grow it as befits her beauty.