Can a 43-year-old man be my new best friend? It’s possible. We wouldn’t really talk about hairstyles and bikini waxing, but we could still, say, crash a few weddings together. Or ride bikes. Or share creamy shakes filled with almonds. Or do yoga. Or fly kites. Or try nasty liquor made from cardamom. Or have philosophical conversations late into the night. Or disagree on Bollywood movies which are clearly horrible but he doesn’t see. Or smoke a few beedies (hidden from the wife, of course.). Or spend hours in the bookstore together. Or read the newspaper over tea. Or go to the mall. Or debate the necessity of curd and coffeemakers.
Yes, it’s all very possible. And so it is. Arvind G is my new Indian best friend. An ex Army Lieutenant he decided to retire early and open a guest house in the Indian desert. What he lacks in stature, he makes up for in mustache. And he dreams of beer and sweets just like Homer. In fact, he is a real life Indian Homer Simpson, and he will undoubtedly be my favorite memory from India.
Shoulder stands on Arvind’s rooftop. Indians really do yoga and pranayama every morning. The hippies weren’t lying.
We crashed two weddings. And even took advantage of the free libations. The streets were filled with anxious grooms on the special auspicious day in July when astrologists suggested weddings should take place. They all strode into their ceremonies on horseback led by a parade of guests and lantern holders, a generator and stereo pumping from behind.
Another good friend I met in Jaipur. He was nice too, but when we invited him to the veranda he ate 20 mangoes and didn’t save any for us. Pretty douchey if you ask me.
Indian weddings are so decorated and elaborate. Horses aren’t even allowed in without proper manicures.
The view from Arvind’s roof and the location of several conversations about important things like life and nasal jewelry.