by Mayur Chauhan

Mayur Chauhan, *Find Beauty Everywhere*, digital (street) photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.

A Little Bit of Everything

Mayur ChauhaN | SEPT 2024 | Issue 37

1. Rituals

Every morning at no specific time but definitely way before I’d rather want to wake up two cats take turns to sing the opposite of a lullaby in various vocal ranges that all sound like a scream for help shaming and blaming me for never ever feeding them once in their lifetime and every morning at no specific time but definitely way before I’d rather want to wake up I wake up to feed them and say to myself that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

2. Bliss

Saying that I ‘enjoy’ doing laundry would be like saying I enjoy Opera. I don’t. Saying that I feel ‘guilty’ eating apple fritters would be like saying I feel ‘guilty’ for breathing. I don’t.

But because the universe always has a plan, and part of the plan was to make the laundromat and the donut shop equidistant from where I park the car, I feel balanced. As Rumi would have said —

out beyond enjoyment and guilt

there’s a parking spot

I’ll meet you there.

3. Metaphors

My dentist in Encino is a jolly guy. When I drive to him there comes a curve on the road where traffic slows down. Changing lanes becomes impossible, no U-Turns allowed, honking useless. The whole stretch lasts about a minute or two. And on the radio at that moment plays Puccini to make things more insightful, more memorable, to make one think of metaphors—what could it mean? Is this what point-of-no return is? Isn’t life like that mostly? We’re all going forward at our own pace dictated by outside conditions, no point in rushing? Let go. Enjoy the journey. Embrace the chaos. In those moments of profundity, I wonder if there’s parking at my dentist who is in Encino.

4. Questions

…but why?
Why what?
…but why a little bit of everything?
Why not a little bit of everything?
…why not pick one or two things?
Which one or two things?
…what if it’s too much?
What if it is?
…you always answer questions with questions?
What do you think?

Mayur Chauhan, *You Win*, street art (digital), 2024. Courtesy of the artist.

5. Tough Love

There’s a man in my neighborhood who comes to the park with his 5-year-old pet turtle named Herbert. He said I could touch Herbert and so I did. I touched his shell, rubbed it, and Herbert took his neck out of the neck shield and looked around and stretched before taking small steps. “He loves it,” said the man.

Falling in love with Herbert was instantaneous. Not slow. Steady? We shell see.

6. A Love Poem

You

7. Home

The man who gave me a haircut in his new shop called himself Jordan, after his country. A big guy. I smelled nicotine from his hands as he cut my hair. He took my picture to remember me the next time I would call. He has old customers of his own, he said. I was a walk-in, he didn’t say. He hasn’t been back home for fifteen years, he said. He wished it wasn’t so, he didn’t say.

How is it home if he’s here?

Why is home where we are not?

8. Wings

In my flights to Delhi or back to L.A., almost every time, mostly at night, after the flight attendants have served meals and drinks, after the crying kids have gotten tired and fallen asleep, after the lights are turned off, I get up to stretch and walk around. I look outside the window, sometimes I’d see some distant lights on the ground, sometimes nothing.

That’s where a poet would talk about the oneness of us all, what we’re leaving behind what we’re going towards.

But I’m no poet. So all I think of is you. My love. Only you.

Mayur Chauhan, *Jump with Joy,* street art, digital photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.

9. April Mornings

My final school exams were in April. Baby leaves of the peepal would turn fully green. Big flowers would turn into mangoes — a time of becoming. A chrysalis must score 90% marks to move ahead as a butterfly.

In school, at the end of the month, while they announced the results, Papajee waited near an always-in-construction building. Every now and then (more frequently than I’d admit), I’d look in that direction to find him amongst all the other parents. I prepared the whole year.

Afterwards, no matter how I did (I did well, mostly) he’d hold my hand and we’d walk. Like I was born for this moment, I would touch on purpose his Titan wristwatch with a brown leather strap and fly.

10. Every Romantic Bollywood Song | A Vibrant Commentary Documentary Life

She’s running around a tree, he’s running around another tree, a good warm-up. They are both singing, music is playing — piano, guitar, tabla, and drums. They’re so close, yet they don’t see each other, and when they do, a big fan off-camera blows his hair and her saree into a new dimension.

She smiles seductively as she sings, black eyeliner around her eyes. He’s happy for no reason.

New beats from newer instruments — sitar, harmonium, a bit of classical this time, as they run towards each other, both short of breath. Either a directorial decision or they need to work on their cardio.

They look into each other's eyes and smile, the camera moves back and forth in slow motion, first on her, then on him. The music is fast(er), the words of the song smooth(er) — heart, love, you, me, forever and ever. Grrr.

He extends his arms, and at first she doesn’t know what to do, but then she does. She holds them, he kisses her fingers, she blushes, it gives him courage so he picks her by the waist(great arms dude), and moves her closer to his nose, barely touching. She’s shocked. No matter how many takes, how many songs, she’s always shocked, and then gives away a smile, glances down and sideways, flicks her hair with one hand, great hand eye coordination.

Oh, I forgot the clouds. It’s raining now, with thunder and lightning and no warning from the weather folks. No one saw it coming. They’re nothing if not good sports, these actors, they’re gonna turn this into a water adventure. A love triathlon.

They continue singing and dancing on the street with puddles of rainwater, glad she has waterproof make-up. Her saree and her blouse are now see-through, it may or may not be the same saree she wore earlier in the song.

Her bangles make sounds louder than the lightning and thunder. Now they are both wet, and they are wanting to dry their drenched clothes, but how?

There’s hope, out of nowhere, a small cottage with lights on, they go and find no one. They break laws to break-in, and look, an already lit fireplace!

No words. Only music. Him, her, fire, water, earth, she gestures to him to look away while she puts her clothes to dry on a stranger’s sofa. She’s wrapped in a pilfered towel.

As he turns around and the lights go out, it can only mean that the cottage owner didn’t pay their electricity bills, but the lovers are already too close to each other and it’s already too late in the song, they hear each other's heartbeats, water from her hair drips and ruins a persian rug.

He has six-pack abs, so has to take his shirt off.

They come closer, slower, his lips on hers. We see mist through the windows, one more lightning for effect, the fire dies down. Total darkness. Because the Censor Board of India doesn’t tolerate non-payment of utility bills.

The music fades out as we get back in the story where we left off. Yet, the song remains with us forever.

Mayur Chauhan, *Drunk in Love,* digital (street) photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.

11. Dearest Reader

I love you

I’m glad you are here

Let me say it again

I love you

I’m glad you are here

Mayur Chauhan is an L.A. based immigrant, writer, actor, and teacher of creativity. He writes stories in all forms and has published over 35 short humor pieces in McSweeney’s and elsewhere. A Key West Literary Seminar, VONA and Bread Loaf scholar, Mayur created and facilitates C.A.R.E. for Artists an 8-week long online creativity, & accountability group for artists across disciplines. He wants you to know that you’re amazing. Mayur loves writing letters by hand, chai and you.