by Mayur Chauhan

Mayur Chauhan, *Void in My Heart,* pencil and Strathmore Bristol Paper 100lb, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Festival of Love

Mayur Chauhan | OCT 2024 | Issue 38

Beyond translation: Jugaad, a way of life

I didn’t break the tea pot. It was meant to be broken. The handle gave way, might have been the heat.

How much heat can one tolerate anyways?

There’s that glue thingy that one could use to keep things together. The putty sort of thing, it comes in various colors of disappointment.

I used it to hold the handle with the pot and waited. The mended handle worked for a while and then said good bye forever, hasta la vista baby, Yo! Adrian, you had me at hello and some other movie quotes.

But what I couldn’t do was throw the pot away. I don’t think a pot stops being a pot or making a chai without the handle. The handle was a part with some function. But then I found other ways to work around like a pincer and an arms workout, which brings me to one of the most lost-in-translation, most-mystical, and my most-favorite words — 'jugaad.’

Mediocre translations of jugaad could mean the-not-giving-up-attitude, the-finding-a-way-no-matter-what-attitude, the-no-one-can-stop-me-attitude.

Innovative lateral thinkers got nothing on us jugaadus. That’s what we’re called — jugaadus. We technically invented thinking outside those boxes.

You don’t have enough cash for a cab ride back home, you rob someone — that's a crime. Not jugaad.

At the beginning of the telecom revolution in India, when there was no such thing as free calls or unlimited texts, a missed call from your friends’ cell phone would mean they’re outside your home. Time to go with them and party.

Money saved. Capitalism busted. Relationships maintained. What a jugaad. What a life.

Mundane Magic

In the not-a-dog-park where people bring their dogs, leashed and unleashed, I go for a walk. There are squirrels, hundreds of them, at least. I named them all Jerry, maybe from Tom & Jerry or maybe because Jerry rhymes with the word gilheri (hard g), as we call them in Hindi.

Today a little after the earthquake, after the cats freaked out, but only for a little, after the house plants stopped shaking, Jerry took a peanut from my hand.

I’m not the doer here, I’m the waiter, if anything, or the bringer or a conductor of things, a peanut, buried and grown far off and deep, harvested between seasons, salted, packed, boxed, loaded, shipped, unloaded, priced, stocked, sold, jarred (is that a verb, where you put things in a jar, jarred?) and I put them in a plastic food container from one of the take-outs, talk about recycling, I’m all over it, most of the time, so yeah...

I got this peanut that at first held in my palm, like Jerry is a palm-reader. Jerry judged me, the future looked bleak, and climbed back up on the sugar gum tree.

I corrected my mistake.

I held the peanut between the thumb and index finger like a dream of a lover or a rose for a beloved and waited, anticipation wasted, no time to think, just wait, watch, thoughtless, attentive.

Is this what the athletes call being in the zone and all the motivation speakers around the world wouldn’t shut up about? If I had a peanut for everytime someone online used the words being in the zone or the overly used and abused four letter word — flow, all the Jerries in the world wouldn’t have to worry about a single peanut all their lives.

Anyways, the sprinklers sprinkled at a distance, the runners ran in circles around the park like a simile circling a poet, and Jerry looked at me with an open mouth, climbed down, became one with the tree, a flatscreen TV but flatter, and took the peanut from me, climbed back up.

It made my day. I said, “I love you, Jerry. See you soon.”

Although, a thank you would have been nice, Jerry.

Mayur Chauhan, *Siblings,* Micron pens and printer paper, 8.5 x 11 inches, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

Scars

When you run your hand on my forehead you’d immediately notice that I’m letting you do so. Which means either you’re a doctor or I told you the story — more like an anecdote.

The anecdote: I was in Delhi, in the house where I was born, whenever power went out we kids played hide and seek. It was my turn to seek and my cousin’s to hide. With my eyes closed, I looked for her, and managed to save both my good eyes, or I could say that I made maa take me to a hospital to get stitches on my forehead (you feel it?) for I ran into the sharp corner of a wooden sofa made of stainless steel that could cut through dimensions. They made things to last back then.

In the three-wheeler auto rickshaw I laid on maa’s lap. Falling asleep. The light in the operation theater the heat of a thousand suns.

The scar, now fainted, I still carry with me, like maa carried me.

I also have a scar under my chin from running into a barbed wire. Games we played.

Several years later, just before the pandemic, I ran into a metallic clamp that was supposed to glue this door together which didn’t want to. This time, for symmetrical reasons, a new scar on the opposite side of my forehead, can you see it?

Running into things & people: my profession. Stubbed-toes: my hyphenated middle name.

Anyways, I’m so glad we ran into each other because you, my beloved, are you and how I wish to have met you sooner, in an earlier life even, each time you’d run your hand on my forehead.

I’d show you all my scars and you'd show me yours. Healing is obligatory, a by-product, even.

I would steal all your scars and carry them with me with love, of a mother carrying her son to the hospital, to the place where all scars become one. Where it’s hard to know whose scar is which.

(Note to self: Business idea — museum of scars, suggested entry fee $25)

My Perfect Body

my skull
talk of towns
hair lush
my forehead calm
center of universe
my temples worshiped
adam’s apple delicious
my eyes bring peace
my nostrils flare to cause rains
my teeth celebrated worldwide
dimples symmetry personified
my skin radiant
my BMI exact
my cheekbones subject of many a phd thesis
my ears maps of new bodies of water
my thorax people pledge on
my chest a greek god’s torso
my breasts dreams made of
my nipples cone-shaped marvels
my biceps are triceps
my triceps well-defined
my elbows symphonic
my pectoralis are my trapezius
my shoulder blades sheathed
my spinal column elongating
my nervous system confident
my calves graze
my tibia causer of wars
and peace treaties
my knees a muse’s muse
my thighs exporter of muscles
my censored artful
my censored mysterious
my censored WOW
just WOW
my posterior rugae spoken for by
the Louvre
my body image issues have issues
my personality humble

Mayur Chauhan, *U R X-CEPCHANEL N0 5,* Micron pens and printer paper, 8.5 x 11 inches, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

Micro (10 ^-6) memoirs

Is it nap time? It is.
Delhi, NY, LA, moon & beyond
Ever in Celsius never in Fahrenheit
Ambassador of post offices & libraries
Missing not-wanted: MBA and Engineer
Made in India now available everywhere
Biggest fan of everything about you
An amateur left-handed person
Is it chai time? It is.

Nano (10 ^-9) memoirs

As Seen on TV
Professional Procrastinator
Delhi Personified Patent Pending
Always a Student Even When Teaching
Annoyingly Punctual or Punctually Annoying?
Perennial Questioner of Status-quos
A Calculator: You Can Count On
True Fiction Streaming Now
A (Re)Bloomer

Pico (10 ^-12) memoirs

Organically Produced
Original Content
Dreamish Doodler
Export Quality
Born Cinephile
Magic Believer
Retired Virgo
Union Strong
Pet Friendly
RainLover
Peacock
We

A Bargain

a historic
railway station
depot turned coffee shop
on a wooden bench I sip matcha
and not-write, a Post office on my one
side, a bus-station on other a festival
of people on all sides I compliment a man on
his colorful shoes he turns around, and sits next
to me on wooden bench like I already know him
we decide we are all one no matter
from where we come, me India, he here and
there and everywhere It is time to go back
to not-writing I think. he a mind reader
picks up a pair of new Puma sandals
from his bag puts them on the floor
I could own for ten dollars he says
I only had had (lucky) seven I say
he smiles, accepts, smiles
again thanks me and leaves
every now and then
in between steps I marvel
at these black sandals
I thank him

Femto (10 ^-15) memoirs

we share

a bus ride

we share

a birthright

we share

a smile

my love

Poetry in a Cup

place a teapot
on stove
medium heat
add water

How much?
a bit more than
half a cup

when the water boils
add Red Label tea

How much?
follow your heart
but not too much

Does it have to be Red Label?
no comments, but yes

let water change color to your liking
darker = stronger

daydream

How much?
if you had to ask

What time is it?
time to add 1/2-cup of milk

Can I add coconut, soy, almond or oat —
STOP! NO! also, you do you

crush some (un)peeled ginger and add

Can I use ginger paste?
Seriously?
to be clear: NO

add few crushed cardamoms
hum your favorite song
a few lines
bring chai to boil
a few times

turn the stove off
strain the chai

Where?
in your favorite cup

add sugar or kiss a loved one
slurp
with eyes closed
say ah!

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 40 pieces in Khôra, McSweeney’s and elsewhere. A Bread Loaf, VONA and Key West Literary Seminar 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.