Friday, May 08, 2015


from Small Stories from My Enormously Spiritual Life

Why do I write?  I write because the spiritual people here at the Shanti cafe are currently attempting to reach a consensus about whether or not to turn on the fan.  One individual explains that she suffers from “a wind imbalance” and might thus be maimed by a breeze.  Her friend suspects that she suffers from a wind imbalance too, but she’s not totally sure.  Other people point out that it is May here in Tamil Nadu, nearly 40 degrees Celsius, and that the sensation of sweat dripping ceaselessly from one’s skin is highly unpleasant, regardless of whether the underlying sense of unease they are experiencing is, in fact, a case of sunstroke.

I write because if I just started screaming obscenities it might mean that I am turning into my father.  The sweat rolling off of my hand is causing the paper to buckle.  Although I am praying that they turn on the fan, I am not willing to speak up.  I am worried that my voice might sound agitated -- or much, much too calm.

I have also informed God that I will donate 75 American dollars to charity if a biker walks into the Shanti cafe right now and lights up a big fat cigar.

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