Dripping the obligatory Calcutta sweat, I bounded up a couple steps and through the door. Might be some cheap stuff in here. Stopped and scanned the three walls of dark brown rifles standing straight and serious like courtroom wood paneling.
Whipped off my sunglasses and looked the shopkeeper in the eye: “Can foreigners buy guns?” “No.” “Thank you,” and I left with mock urgency.
My friend might have punched my arm. He’s Indian, and according to my notepad he said, “You realize, man, that if anything goes down in the next three days with a gun, the cops are going to go to that guy, and he’ll say that some white guy with weird shades came in and asked if foreigners can buy guns.”
Yeah, it was a pretty random question. But (in retrospect) it accomplished three things.
1. It intersected the existence of an Upstate New York pizza man with that of a Calcutta arms dealer, just for a second, as the dealer answered what, for his line of work, is a legitimate question.
2. It let me try on another self. A man in the market for a firearm. Part of why travel increases the odds of self-discovery is the surplus of opportunities for casting aside your usual identity.
3. It’s worthwhile (and usually downright entertaining) to check out what you expect to be a dead end.
The reason the photo is so boring is because Sobby handed me his camera.
You can check out his badass galleries and expect his stuff on here sooner or later.
PS — When I go back to Calcutta, the only cannon I’m shopping for is a baritone sax.
Tags: India2 Comments
And when you picked one up, he pointed at you, and said “Don’t.”
*!Thug life!*