So this afternoon, I was in Laxman Jhula, on the rooftop of this cool little bamboo-cladded cafe, where I made a hilariously silly faux-pax. And bear in mind this happens whilst I’m four days into my ‘partial silence’— lips downturned and eyes puffed, throwing up namaste hands to every local who tries speaking to me, “I’m in my si-len-ce” I mouth, watching them recoil, apologetic. Whilst let’s be honest, it’s India, I’m loving the anonymity this badge of ‘Silence’ gives me. 

So anyway, I’m sitting at my bamboo-cladded table—shock, I’d just eaten a tikka paneer but am attempting to get back to my studies. However, my belly’s full and my mind's wandering. I’m looking around for distraction and see these incense sticks. 

“Great” I thought.

I’ll light one of them, activate the Muladhara chakra and get this focus dialed back in. Simple, but effective procrastination. So I’m looking around, but I can’t find a lighter. I check my bag, even under the bamboo, but no luck. Aside from one stoned guy lounging by the till—who’d kindly served my food in silence—the cafe is empty at this point. Granted I should’ve asked the stoner, but he looked too chilled so I didn’t bother him. Instead, I wander up to this chest-high surface with a statue of Shiva on-top—he’d been catching my eye throughout, all one foot of him, meditating, trident in hand, cobra wrapped around his neck, that aesthetic never fails to entice. Next to this statue was a match-shaped box. 

“Great, matches will do just fine” 

I pull out one of these stubby things and it looks like a cross between a crayon and a tailor-made cigarette. A weird looking thing, but it’s India, they have all sorts of crazy stuff here. So I think nothing of it. I strike the stub—sparks burst into a ferocious cackle, but like some Fidel Castro tribute act, I’m already mid-motion, with the incense clamped between my teeth, ready to be lit. In a hurry I hold the cackling stub up to the resin-end and then BANG—

As if a stun grenade had been thrown in the cafe, this thing explodes right in front of my face. My ears numb and my head spinning, I scream and thus break my silence with a:

“FUCK CUNT FUCK”

The stoner hurdles towards me, eyes wide with genuine concern “You good, man?” Still dazed, I nod. He’s crouched, inspecting the scene below— the unlit incense, the blackened fragments of the stub—then without a moment's hesitation, erupts into hysterical laughter. At this point the situation couldn’t have gone worse for me, so I catch his giggles wondering what could possibly be so funny. Barely able to breath he tells me:

“You—light the stick—with” he gasped for air “Diwali firecracker!” 

I’d never seen someone laugh so hard, now I’m joining in—laughing at the moronic idea that blew up in my face. As the laughter begins to subside, my head—still frazzled from the stun grenade—begins to spin. I close my eyes and grip my hands around my head. Embarrassed by my idiocy and forgetting my silence, I drag out the word “Fuuck”, the stoner erupts, again. This time he’s hunched over, eyes bursting from their sockets, one hand clutching his clearly racing heart, the other pointed directly at me. 

“You—oh my—break your” The stoner had tears in his eyes, “Silence!” 

My suffering was an amusement park for this gentleman. Luckily, I saw the funny side. We continued to laugh for a few more minutes.