The Secret of Magic

"At any and every moment many things are happening. This happens here, and that happens there. Almost all of the things that are happening are, let's be both realistic and honest for a moment, unrelated to each other. All of life, all that happens, I believe, is coincidental. But people hate coincidence; they want everything to be connected. That is why people love magic, believe me. Magic indicates connections that aren't really there. The telephone rings, the curtain is ruffled by the wind, a dog barks, I set down my glass on the table... The magician merely has the ability to encourage his audience to perceive two or more of these unrelated events as connected in some way. And then the magician takes credit for it." 

                                                                               -The Incredible Mayadhar

I’m currently residing in what has been already established as one of my least favorite (actually, we're amongst friends here, why not be honest) most hated cities in India - Pushkar. I'm sorry if some of y'all like the place but I've been out of my game, out of my luck, dissatisfied and lethargic for over a week, waiting for my magician’s coat to be finished, and though I know without doubt that my own choices of perception have contributed largely to my current stagnation, I hold fast to the certainty that the city itself has at least a little to do with it.

In Varanasi, for example, if I was bored, I could simply wander outside and get lost in the maze of alleyways, constantly bombarded by funerals and pujas and weddings and basic insanity of enough sorts to make even the most idle of observers fascinated. But I pray I don't hold Varanasi up to any sort of standard to which the rest of India should compare, for I doubt any will come close.

Yet in Pushkar, for example, I already know all the streets and all the items up for purchase, and I'm already sick to death of the clothing stalls and the strictly-vegetarian food and the forced-handfuls-of-flowers and the Rawanhattha players with their wonderful stringed instruments made of bamboo and wire, asking me what happened to Actually and why she's not here anymore even though she promised to buy one off of them.

It's not my business, my fault, or my worry. I don't care.

I'm sorry, dude, I don't care about your sacred lake. No, Actually's gone. She's in Delhi. No, I don't want to throw some flower petals in a river and give Brahman money. Nope, I don't want any shoes. Oh, Actually? She's gone to Delhi, and then to Darjeeling, I think. No, I don't want a rickshaw, a chai, or a falafel. I just want to be left alone as I wither in this stagnant tourist city and wait for my damn coat to be made. I just want a falafel. I haven't even made it to the main street yet, and I'm bombarded with questions. Behind my sunglasses, my stoned eyes search for escape.

I'm already dripping with sweat before I'm halfway to Baba's, the only place in town where you can get a beer without them having to run down to the basement and discreetly fill a teapot with watered-down mild Kingfisher Premium. That whole facade usually takes about 45 minutes. For shame! Whereas at Baba's, you're guaranteed a nice, lukewarm beer within a half-hour. It usually fizzes up something awful, so when it arrives I crack the aluminum top and hesitate cautiously. This one's ok. I open it fully and fill my meager glass.

The vibe at Baba’s that evening is chiller than usual. There’s an attractive girl playing a ukulele and singing what I swear is a Backstreet Boys song, only done with a whole lotta soul and a different melody. People from all nations fill the tables, banter being kept up in at least five languages, which being American I cannot of course understand.

I had been extremely lucky this time to get a table on the edge of the balcony, with its view of the market below; the fresh oranges and grapes and bananas being sprayed generously with disgusting Indian tap-water to keep them looking fresh; the muddy (hold on - that's not mud) puppy nearly getting run over as it runs up to enthusiastically greet every motorcycle and rickshaw; the bored cows - unconcerned with the whap they receive in the nose or third-eye from passing young men on motorcycles - slowly chewing their cud; the beggar kids grinning at each other before throwing on alarmingly realistic looks of despair, sucking in their stomachs and running to surround and thwart the most timid-looking of the tourists; it's all business as usual down there. The most common sight of all is the absolutely gorgeous tourist women - oblivious to the basic ethics of the country they're visiting - wearing ridiculously short shorts or skirts and tank-tops, knees-a-gander, titties nearly flopping out as they gaze around the merchandise, while aghast and hopeful and desperate Indian eyes everywhere stare openly, unscrupulous and astounded.

I would be a liar if I said the last sight doesn't tend to hold my attention most. Even as, smug in my superiority, I sneer at and pity the Western girls (goodness, woman, don't you know where the fuck you are? Cover up, for godssake), my eyes can't help but linger upon their shameless bodies as they skip, jovially and naively, past the wide eyes of the gaping locals, only to lock onto the nearest brightly-colored garments; they emit girlish squeals that make me cringe even as I have to adjust my pants.

The wind is picking up and sand hits my face, even high up on this luxurious balcony. I hail the waiter and order a bottle of water and another beer, then retire to the sink to flush out my eyes. As I stand, under the pretense of straightening my bow-tie, I survey the room in the mirror. Dammit, where the hell is the scene at? Every table was segregated, friends-already-made, no room for new meetings.

I shake my head and resume my place at the table, to thumb through an incredible book I’d picked up in Jodhpur – “Net of Magic” – all about the tradition of street magicians in India, known as jadugars.. I engross myself in the 7 siddhis, or powers: animan, the power to become minute or disappear, mahiman, the power to become large, laghiman, the power of levitation, prapti, the power of materialization, prakamya, better-known in the West as telikenesis, isitva, basic hypnosis, and vasitva, mass-hypnosis.

As I familiarize myself with these principles and their basic uses, the wind picks up. An enormous gust throws used ashtrays and empty plates amongst the terrace. Many people gasp, or yelp, though the girl with the ukulele simply plays and sings louder.

A few raindrops hit my face. For a split second I smell, or imagine I smell (I lost that particular sense during one of my many concussions before the age of seven, yet every once in a while – approximating twice per month – some sensation hits my nose with unusual clarity and I’m able to fleetingly grasp its odor) the scent of rain in the desert, which reminds me of home. As the rain picks up, the rest of the tables retreat to their neighbors; an unavoidable intermingling.

I feel a joy as the rain and the wind gains power. Some bursts fly in even to cover the back wall of the terrace with droplets. I know I’m the only one still sitting close to the rain, dressed all in black, grinning from ear to ear, and I wonder if I look cool, and I wonder if they think I look cool, and I wonder if they think I’m doing this because I think I look cool, and I wonder if anyone’s looking me at all, but I hope they are, because I feel really cool for the first time in ages, and suddenly I stand up and lean off the balcony and reach out with both arms for the rain without even thinking about it and I really hope someone’s looking at me ‘cause I’m fucking cool.

But all this goes to my head, so I need to go downstairs and outside to the street and really get soaked, because now I know I’ve been being a little bitch for a week now, moaning and complaining about Pushkar. And if being soaked by rain in the desert can’t sooth me, nothin’ can.

I’m not very surprised that of all these hippies in Pushkar, not a single one is out in the rain. They ain’t the type. Nope. Not like my hippies back home. Man, back home if it be rainin’ even the gangstas come outside for that shit, man. I’m feeling superior again. Outside in the rain. But y’know what? I’ve been feeling mostly inferior all this time, so fuck it. I’m a gangsta.

I buy a pack of cigarettes from the closest stall, and some matches, and light up. Then I go ambling around aimlessly, stomping in puddles, trying to keep my ever-growing-damp cigarette from going out. All the Indian men are grinning at me - whether in amusement or empathy or harassment or envy or respect or something else entirely I have no idea - but for a second I feel as if I really, actually don’t care, not like I don’t give a fuck, which I’d been feeling a moment earlier, but more as in an acceptance that there is no real harm in me wandering around a little square in the rain trying to smoke a soggy dog-end, and that’s what I want to do.

And that’s fine.

I look up into the rain and I feel the pitter-patters of the patterns of my past.

In Jodhpur, it had been similarly lethargic. Actually and I, apart from the fort trip, which was pretty cool but nothing to write home about (the pictures tell more than words e'er could), had been hanging around, trying to think of things to do. 

Ok so the zipline around the fort can be summarized thusly.

Flying Fox fun flying fast over forts

a course that is short,of course, but out of sorts,

by which, I mean, not a usual sight to see

like witches flying an unusual flight indeed

Dangling, spinning tourists, not going slow,

but certainly not as fast as one could go,

Nevertheless, it was pretty and a quest,

but it's shitty to invest in being what I detest

I just hate feeling like a tourist. Not that I detested Jodhpur, (God, I sound like a whiny little bitch in this story, 'Meh, meh, I didn't like that city, meh meh meh meh,' honestly my actual outlook has been quite optimistic, I swear...) in fact I dug the elephant and the omelette house and the blue city, but - yes, I'll admit it - I was comparing it to Varanasi, which I was still enthralled with.

Still am, in fact.

And we wanted something to do.

That's when the guest house dude suggested we take a camel safari. Not a normal, 'touristy' camel safari, oh no, something much more enticing.

We'd get to sleep in the sand dunes. Either under the stars, or in a yurt, whatever we wanted. And we could watch the process of opium being made, performed by gypsies. We could race camels through the desert. This would be no normal camel safari. It would be an awesome camel safari. And at only 500 rupees each per day over the normal 'tourist' camel safari price, what could go wrong?

Obviously, it was a normal camel safari. We went out on camels, stayed with a family for a night, and came back.

You'd think I would have learned something by now.

We argued with the guy, who I'm gonna call Dickweed, and got him to give us a thousand rupees back, which was a hard struggle, but not nearly what Dickweed owed us. Still, happy to be getting anything back at all, we checked into another place, half the price, double the size, with a private balcony and a huge bathroom, about a block and a half away. Dammit.

Another shit ton of rain hits me.

Some images emerge.

Like finally following in the footsteps of the Australian and the Austrian, in ignoring the instructions of the instructors, to hurdle headlong high over the magnificent view of Mehrangarh Fort, as the lake glistened and sparrows flew under me, swooping between the lines: the only ride I hadn't been filming and so the only one I got to really experience.

Or like being ridden into a little shop in a desert village where we could get water, cigarettes, and, most important, MaaZaa, with just the dude's little kids as our guides; one would occasionally lose his shoe, hop off, and climb back up the camel easy as could be; he'd wrap his arms around me and rest his head on my back and somehow go to sleep without falling, wobbling crazily with the lurching steps of the camel.

Or being perched over that fucking crowd on that fucking train.

When Actually left to go to Delhi, there was a group of Indian dudes hanging around her within seconds. And it grew. It began with a couple of them offering us biris, though one isn't supposed to smoke on the platform (which drives smokers wild; the old Indian dudes go to the bathroom while the train is moving and throw them down the loo), then when we sat on the bench more and more of 'em showed up until there was about nine standing in a semi-circle, just watching Actually. She took it in good humor, puffing at the biri and joking at them. They weren't threatening, really, or connected, just curious as hell. But as a precaution, Actually and I claimed we were engaged and off to be married just to calm 'em down. 

Lately, when surrounded by people who I don't feel comfortable with in India, I've taken to spouting off rather witty fluid bullshit with, if I might say so, quite intoxicatingly rapid diction which leaves the non-native-English speaker either bobbing their heads in pretend comprehension or smirking at me because they know I'm blabbering. Usually it's the former.

"How are qualified? School-qualified?" quipped the guy who'd first handed me the biri. I gave him a proud nod.

"Indeed, I actually just completed a doctorate in tomfoolery from the Wichita School of Michigan, with a phD in abnormal psychology," I proclaimed. Actually stifled a snort.

The guy seemed unimpressed. "How are work? How are work for government?" I think he thought all questions began with 'how are'.

"Sometimes, when the government is confounded by sinister things it hasn't seen before, it requires the aid of a thaumaturge," I said, "and I've been called in here and there."

"How are money? How are you make much money?"

"Oh." I deflated. I didn't want to imply I had a lot of money. Stupid bragging. "Well, uh, actually it doesn't pay very well, but, uh, my room and board is usually covered by the state branches of the Onomatopoeia, and it's a luxury tax, you know, so, uh, the risk is highly mounted..."

At this point his gaze had turned back to Actually, who was engaged in attempting to persuade the second dude we'd met that he really didn't need her phone number.

"Give him a fake one!" I said low out the corner of my mouth, rapid enough to remain a jumble for most present. "I know a great one! 01505438082-"

But she'd already convinced them they only needed her email. We wrote down a fake one, and they all eagerly passed it around, copying it into their phones and writing it on used juice boxes. She laughed out loud at them all and they looked sheepish. They departed one one one.

And now I'm really happy that I'm standing here soaked in the rain, but I'm getting cold along with wet, so I go back upstairs to Baba's. The waiter's standing there with my food and he says, "Where are you sitting?"

"Uh, there," I motion to the nearest bunch of people who've sat together to be out of the rain, where I also see my book lying. I pull up a chair. They seem to be Italians, and at the right moment I try to introduce myself. They're Argentinean. Shit. Oh well. 

One of the dudes picks up my book and motions to me, asking if it's mine. I give him a thumbs-up and nod affirmative. He asks if I'm a magician. I nod again.

"Finish your food and show us some tricks, then!" he cries. I gulp down my Aloo with my right hand, wrapping pieces of chapati around each mouthful. Not bad. Greasy, spicy potatoes, wrapped in bread. Just what the doctor ordered. I finish up and show the dude sitting next to me some simple tricks with the objects at hand. I electrify matchsticks, pull cigarettes through one another, and twist my arms in ways he could never hope to accomplish.

By this time I've caught the attention of some of the other people around the table. They want some more. My mind races. I read someone's mind. Even more people are paying attention.

"Uh, hold on," I stumble, "I just need to get some stuff from my guest house."

The dude wrinkles his forehead. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. No worries."  I race down the stairs, thinking about what tricks I should nab. The storm's almost subsided, though a few specks of rain hit me here and there. I'm feeling filled with energy for the first time in ages. That storm did the trick, I think.

I love doing magic tricks. Better than anything.

I'm at the center of attention, where I'm most comfortable.

I'm showing off.

People are happy and amazed that I'm doing so.

What could be better?

I can't find my deck of cards so I grab a new one, then wonder if they'll think it's a trick deck simply because it's wrapped in celophane and taped at the end, then realize it doesn't matter what they think, that in fact it's better for them to think it's a fake deck 'cause then they won't know how I do it.

I perform magic tricks for a whole table of strangers for about half an hour. And I'm happy. And I get thanked for my magic. And I wander to my temporary home, smoke a joint, and go to sleep.

The Secret of any magic trick is simply knowing what's connected and what's not.