So this is what happened next: I lost my black scarf, the one I bought with Christopher in Delhi at this really small market next to Connaught Place – for some reason I always want to say Connaught Square –, it was the last day that we were [more]
So this is what happened next: I lost my black scarf, the one I bought with Christopher in Delhi at this really small market next to Connaught Place – for some reason I always want to say Connaught Square –, it was the last day that we were there and the place we wanted to go to with the stuff from Naga Land was closed, so we sat down with the guys from somewhere North and had tea and chatted for a while, and Christopher bought a black scarf and I bought a black scarf, mine had a little white thread at one end, so if you find it – I lost it at Dudu on Torstraße, I think, I sat outside with Hatice Yokusoglu who had not slept well the night before, she wanted to smoke and it seemed reasonably warm but wasn*t. It was warm though for an April day. So I put the scarf on and took it off again, and finally I must have left it there even though the people there say that they did not find a lovely scarf from Kashmir. The point I am trying to make is: The next day or the day after, it had turned cold again and I was without a proper scarf, the winter scarfs all being too warm and the black scarf being perfect and lost, I read what Zadie Smith had written for the New York Review about our very own subject: “Elegy for a Country*s Seasons” she called her piece in which she turns a bit, well, elegiac as she does sometimes in the recent past – what is the reason for that anyway? – but still makes a good point about the weather obviously being more than just a series of events connected by figments of expectations, experiences, lost scarfs; there is the very political anthropology that is involved in the way you think about and write about and just merely acknowledge the weather. I am not sure if Chris Petit would agree with this, but it might be one aspect worth pursuing, one way or another. Also, there was one very nice sentence or part of one in the Zadie Smith piece which goes for all walks of life: “Better to forget what once was normal”.