The Bhubaneshwar airport welcomed us with large billboards of steel and aluminium - Jindal, Vedanta, TATA, and tribal faces in yellow mining helmets, smiling. A fearful, uncanny underbelly of consumer capital. No lingerie, cars, airtel, axe effect, life insurance here. No seduction. But a nervously smiling iron fist promising that primitive accumulation won't fuck you up as bad as you think. You will smile too. But airtel and axe effect are not for you yet. We love you enough to protect your quaintness, your relic state of being - your banana leaves and songs. We must get on with business though. On the way, assimilating your quaintness, as fond remembrance in our journey towards glory. You turn into kitsch by night, and labor by day. And we continue to feel squeamish about the direct agents of violent change, more so about our tenuous squeamish participation in such violence.

Times and worlds away from the Bhubaneshwar airport, we surround ourselves with heady wish-images, pretending that the steel billboards have not much to do with the 3G billboards. The resource chain of capital is our suppressed demon, that plays apologia on the walls of Bhubaneshwar. We continue to buy fresh herbal oils, fabrics untouched by violent capital, postcards with quaint smiles, offbeat music. Capital has not fucked our heads - we scream out loud, at broken dreams in the dead of the night. We sweat profusely, and sometimes dream up outrage, sometimes tragedy.


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