Records from Maharahstra

By Fedor Balacz

Travel memoirs of a visit to India, spiced with teenage love interests that came up along the way. The vibrant and chaotic world of Maharashtra described through the lens of a 19-yearold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fedor Balacz
• Release date: Sep 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223614821

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Fedor Balácz

Records from Maharashtra

Copyright © 2023 by Fedor Balácz

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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Contents

1. Introduction

2. July 22, 2023 (Saturday)

3. July 25, 2023 (Tuesday)

4. July 26, 2023 (Wednesday)

5. July 27, 2023 (Thursday)

6. Train Diary

7. Gathering Room Diary

8. Dirty Bed Diary

9. Train station diary

10. Back on the train

11. Diary in Alibaug

12. Lobby Diary

13. Lobby diary 2

14. Airport Diary

15. Plane diary (again)

16. August 16, 2023 (Wednesday)

About the author

1

Introduction

The following text is written in the form of a travel journal. It describes various details, stories, and anecdotes from a journey in India as well as a short account of Abu Dhabi. The journey primarily covered the territory of Maharashtra, with a few episodes in Delhi and Uttar Pradesh. The journey was part of an international exchange program of youths aged 18-21, divided into two stages: the time spent with a host family and the time spent at a camp with other exchange participants. The timeframe was July/August 2023.

Plane Diary

Screw the damn plane. I’ve always despised flying. It’s never been my thing. Screw the plane, screw the turbulence, and screw those damn lines on the floor you’re supposed to follow when the thing starts nosediving. I’ll stick to those lines, and then I’ll probably end up jamming my head into some guy’s ass, and that’ll be just great. And what the hell are those little holes in the window for? No clue, but they annoy the crap out of me. I hate this whole situation. I hate it all. This flying contraption’s supposed to land in about three hours. I think. Time zones? No clue.

Ah, look, we’re back in shaky-town. Did I mention how much I hate turbulence? Yeah, I did. And guess what? I still hate it. What the hell am I doing here, a regular guy with flesh and bones, around 179 centimeters tall (give or take), and weighing in at 70 kilos (on a good morning), all of a sudden flying 6000 meters in the damn sky? Even birds don’t go that high. And here’s little ol’ me, flying. It’s all just mist out there. At least from what I can see. Kinda yellowish, maybe from sand or something. Doubt sand can get up here. Maybe it’s the sun.

So, here we are, me and this Bekim Sejranović¹ dude, 6000 meters above ground. Never heard of him till yesterday. He kicked the bucket two years ago. Doesn’t mean much to me, but it’s kinda funny it happened so recently.

Not too bad, hanging out with him. Except when the plane’s bouncing around like a damn ping pong ball. And they’re still wheeling that snack cart around. Croissants, those dinky 7days ones that are wetter than a monkey’s cock. And chips, probably selling ‘em for a small fortune. The flight attendants, the grinning bunch they are, strutting around like it’s all cool. Don’t they realize that this rickety wing on my left might just snap, sending us crashing in some godforsaken place in the Caucasus? Right where the remains of Noah’s ark are. Nope, they’re clueless. They’re probably loving this turbulence. Maybe a monkey’s cock will end up in my lap if the plane rattles hard enough.

I’m still trying to read Bekim’s stuff while contemplating how I tanked in some publishing competition back home. Couldn’t even squeeze into the top ten. Didn’t scribble about jacking off like Bekim did. And I’m not even homeless. So, in that sense, Bekim’s got a leg up. That’s today for ya. Not that I’m complaining. I dig Bekim’s scribblings, and I’m all over Bukowski’s words too. They’re kinda similar. Though Bekim’s jacks off more, while Bukowski’s fucks more. That’s why I lean toward Bukowski. But he ain’t innocent either, he jerks off every so often.

My manuscript wasn’t half bad, mind you. I’d say it’s my finest work. Problem is, it’s old-school. Not written in first-person, set like a century ago. They ain’t digging that. It’s gotta be all Yugoslavia or post-war Yugoslavia. Plus, my book’s missing the jerking off Bekim’s got going on. And now the snack cart reeks of instant noodles. Might’ve been tempted, but who cares, we’re all gonna bite it anyway. They’re not getting my 20 euros, and I’m not gonna die with noodles and crap in my pants.

Sun’s gone down, mist’s cleared up. The stay seated sign’s still lit. Where the hell would I even go? Maybe to