The Great Shave of Bodhgaya

In Bodhgaya, everything begins with a room. Uncle Peter had just arrived with Linda on the 21st of March and was given a big, cold room by Papa. It was spacious, sure, but it had no windows. And Peter—being Peter—could never survive without windows. "This room feels like a meat freezer!" he cried, rubbing his arms dramatically. So, without a second thought, he decided to return to his old faithful room near the roadside. Now, this room was the complete opposite: hot as a bakery, with sounds of cows mooing, chickens clucking, neighbours fighting, and auto rickshaws honking all day long. The roof wasn't even properly cemented—just those tin sheets like factory roofs. But it had windows. That was enough for Uncle Peter.

He even claimed, "These sounds aren’t noise—they’re music!" And believe it or not, sometimes when the neighbour ladies had their full-on verbal duels, Peter would stand by the window and do a little jig. It was his kind of jazz. While the rest of us preferred morning or evening walks, he chose the bold path—afternoon walks in the blazing Indian heat. Forty-plus degrees didn’t faze him. "The sun is my friend!" he’d say while wiping off sweat with a handkerchief that looked older than the cafe building itself.

Linda, meanwhile, was busy doing laundry and cleaning their room at our Taj House. She’d taken on that responsibility fully, especially after she found Peter’s ancient pant that he’d been wearing for ages and ages. Without mercy, she threw it in the dustbin. Good riddance. Her next target was his infamous white Moses robe—Peter’s treasure, that made him look like a wandering prophet. She called it ugly. Peter, being the cynic he is, called it character.

Now here comes the real chaos.

Uncle Peter had always had a beard. Not just any beard—a magnificent, wild, philosopher’s beard. Maddy, his daughter, had never seen him clean-shaven. Not in person, not in baby pictures. In fact, legend says he was born with a beard. He was the kind of man who could be easily mistaken for Charles Darwin, Karl Marx, or a skinny Santa Claus who'd seen better days. Add to the list Rasputin, Dostoevsky, and that one ancient wizard who lived in the hills (probably).

But everything changed because of one absurd idea. Linda, my father Shamim, and I were casually chatting about how funny Peter might look if he ever shaved it all off. Linda, ever the instigator, dropped the bomb: "You should go full clean-shaven, Peter." My father backed her up, and I, planning to get my own shave, agreed—mostly because I didn’t want to go alone. For two days, Peter kept skipping the mission. So I went alone to Prince Saloon and got myself shaved. Guess who walked in right after?

Peter.

In a moment of pure cosmic absurdity, without giving it any thought, he sat in the chair and let the barber do the unthinkable. 

Beard—gone. 

Moustache—gone. 

Hair—gone. 

And when it was done, and he looked into the mirror, there stood a man he didn’t recognize. Not Uncle Peter, but… Gandhi. The only thing missing was the iconic round glasses. Shocked and confused, he turned to me and said, "Why did I listen to you guys? I should have never done it."

He looked like a stranger to himself. He was sad. All the way home, he was cursing me, Lin, and my father—silently in his mind, of course.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. He kept looking in the mirror, turning his head, making faces. The next day, he had an idea. He put on suspenders, smiled awkwardly, and took a picture with some monks to celebrate his new look. That photo was sent to Maddy in the UK. When she saw it, she was shocked. She had never seen her father without his iconic beard.

Back at Cafe Nexus, our dream project was unfolding beautifully and absurdly. We were making collages and posters, setting up shelves and tables while listening to classic songs on the record player. Peter brought along some precious items from his lifetime collection, including an Arabic Coca-Cola sign from 1988 which he got in Egypt and had kept sacred in the UK. Now, finally, it belonged where it should: our Cafe Nexus.

He also had a poster of Pangong Lake, the iconic scene from 3 Idiots, part of the “Incredible India” campaign. And one day, while watching the new movie A Complete Unknown based on Bob Dylan’s memoir in the UK, Peter came across the official poster outside the theatre. He asked the staff what would happen to it after the movie run was over. They gifted it to him. That poster now proudly hangs in our cafe.

There’s more. Uncle Peter gave me a book about the Roswell UFO incident, which I absolutely loved. And when we looked at that Pangong Lake poster, he said, “Let’s add UFOs to it.” So we did. We printed out a big A3-sized alien and stuck it into the scenery. It became our Mona Lisa. And we became the Leonardo da Vincis of absurd cafe art.

Peter and Papa play chess every evening. Most of the time, Peter loses. But he takes it with grace… and occasional growls. Some days we watch films together. Recently we watched Jude, based on Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy. It was full of tragedy after tragedy, so bleak and depressing… we absolutely enjoyed it.

Linda has started reading novels again. We recommended Empire of the Soul by Paul William Roberts, which both Uncle Peter and I loved, but she didn’t enjoy it. Instead, she went off reading some silly novels. But that’s fine—let her enjoy what she enjoys. She’s toothless for now—thanks to a dental surgery—but her smile’s still sharp, and her ideas are wild.

Through it all, Cafe Nexus continues to grow. Every absurdity becomes a story. Every moment becomes a memory. And somewhere in the middle of it all, stands Uncle Peter—beardless, smiling awkwardly, like a misplaced Gandhi surrounded by UFOs, jazz chickens, alien posters, and the weirdest little club cafe Bodhgaya has ever seen.

It’s chaos, it’s creativity, it’s our theatre. He sleeps around 5 a.m., wakes up at noon or 1 p.m., drinks coffee, smokes a cigarette, and then we get to work. We buy paint, wood, frame posters, and print absurd artwork. Recently we framed a photography piece by our friend T.P.—a photo from 90s Kolkata showing a dog standing on tin, balancing on two legs. We love that photo. We love T.P.

Inside the cafe, we spend time making collages, cutting posters, designing random absurd things while listening to Leonard Cohen, The Beatles, and sometimes Boy George. 

The books? Oh, there’s no order. I purposely scattered the books by the same authors in different shelves across the cafe to make things wonderfully confusing. I made a digital collage with Kafka in the centre-top, and below him is Uncle Peter smiling in his beard with arms wide open. Around them are my friends, authors, singers, philosophers, aliens, and artists like Salvador Dali, Frida Kahlo, and some Indian celebrities. This chaos is our art.

Cafe Nexus is not just a cafe. It’s a club. A madhouse. A philosophy temple. A concert. A theatre stage. We might shift the chessboard soon and build a billing cabinet near the darts. And while I don’t know if I’ll ever make a documentary on this madness, I do feel like I should. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But we are enjoying every single moment. Cafe Nexus is alive. And for Uncle Peter, everything is theatre.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe that’s more than enough.

The Invisible War, Intergalactic Pirates, and the Fridge Magnet Conspiracy: The Truth Behind Cafe Nexus

Move over Roswell, forget Area 51—Bodh Gaya has just become the epicenter of the greatest extraterrestrial revelation in human history. And unlike shady government coverups, this is open to the public. No redacted files, no men in black—just coffee, UFOs, and a cosmic conspiracy held together by fridge magnets.

It all started with a completely normal travel poster. A scenic lake, mountains, and sky—nothing suspicious. But then, in a moment of divine extraterrestrial enlightenment, Uncle Peter gazed at it, stroked his beard, and whispered, "Aliens. It needs aliens."

Now, you might think this was just an artistic impulse. Oh no, my friend. Uncle Peter is not just an ordinary man—he is being channeled by extraterrestrial forces. That’s right. While the rest of us struggle with rent and existential dread, Uncle Peter has intergalactic contacts.

According to him, he is a high-ranking member of the Intergalactic Council, which (until recently) none of us knew existed. He has been receiving transmissions from an alien guide—an esteemed extraterrestrial being who happens to be best friends with Valiant Thor, the legendary Venusian who allegedly worked with the U.S. government in the 1950s. Uncle Peter’s alien friend is also from Venus, and they have given him a very important mission.

What is this grand mission? To expose the invisible war that has been raging for thousands of years.

The War No One Talks About

Uncle Peter insists that World War II never ended. That was just the surface-level battle. The real war has been going on in secret—a massive intergalactic conflict between two opposing forces:

The Intergalactic Council – a noble alliance of ancient extraterrestrial civilizations working to protect Earth from cosmic predators.

The Pirates of Space – ruthless interstellar looters who seek to seize control of Earth because their planets are collapsing, and they’re running out of resources.

To these spacefaring factions, Earth is not just a planet. It’s a special shop, a valuable cosmic property filled with resources, energy, and a population that is easily manipulated. And right now, the Pirates of Space are getting desperate. Their ships are sinking, they are out of time, and they are making their move.

“It’s like Ready Player One,” Uncle Peter explains, sipping his coffee. “In the movie, whoever finds the Easter egg gets full control of the virtual world. But on Earth, whoever wins this war gets full control of the entire planet.”

And if you think this is a recent development, think again.

Uncle Peter claims that this cosmic battle has been happening since the time of Mesopotamian civilization. The ancient gods? Not gods at all. Aliens. The Sumerians? Guided by extraterrestrial knowledge. The pyramids? Strategic energy stations.

The beings that humanity once worshipped as deities have been channeling us since the beginning of civilization, sometimes to guide us, sometimes to use us as pawns in their intergalactic chess game. Every major war, every unexplained historical event, every shift in global power—it’s all part of this grand, cosmic struggle.

And the politicians? They’re all involved. Every handshake between world leaders, every mysterious summit—it’s not about trade deals. It’s about who gets to rule Earth.

Fridge Magnets: The Secret Weapon of the Resistance

So what does this have to do with the UFOs on our poster? Everything.

When Uncle Peter had his divine extraterrestrial revelation, we knew we had to act fast. We printed out flying saucers, cut them out, and prepared to stage an invasion. But then came the logistical crisis.

How do you attach UFOs to a poster without making the Intergalactic Council mad?

That’s when I, channeled not by aliens but by sheer earthly genius, had a brilliant idea. Fridge magnets.

And just like that, Cafe Nexus now proudly displays the first magnetically secured alien visitation in human history. The UFOs hover mysteriously over the landscape, completely movable—just in case the Galactic Council wants to adjust their trajectory. Unlike classified files hidden away in underground bunkers, this extraterrestrial encounter is fully interactive. You can even reposition the UFOs yourself—though Uncle Peter warns that sudden movement could disrupt the space-time continuum.

But this is more than just art. Uncle Peter insists it’s a sign. A message. A warning? We’re not sure. He just sips his coffee, stares at the wall, and mutters cryptic things like, “They are watching, but they mean no harm. Not yet.”

The Invitation

So if you ever feel lonely in the universe, remember—you are not alone. None of us are. Because Uncle Peter is here, the aliens are here, and most importantly, the fridge magnets are here, holding everything together.

And unlike government coverups, we invite you to come see it for yourself.

Come for the coffee. Stay for the truth.

#CafeNexus #UnclePeterKnows #InvisibleWar #IntergalacticCouncil #PiratesOfSpace #TheyAreWatching #WeAreNotAlone #TheRealWorldWar #CosmicConspiracy #FridgeMagnetTechnology #EasterEggHuntForEarth #ValiantThor #RoswellIncident

The Grand Revelation of the Arabic Coca-Cola Sign!

Alright folks, gather around because history is being made. This isn't just any Coca-Cola sign, no no NO! This is an artifact, a relic of an era long gone, a piece of pure cosmic energy disguised as a rusty old board.

Back in the 1990s, when Uncle Peter was living life like a cross between Richard Burton and Indiana Jones, he found himself in Egypt. Why? Because obviously, he was on a quest to unlock the mysteries of the universe (as one does). Armed with sheer curiosity and an unreasonable amount of wanderlust, he ventured across deserts, deciphered ancient scripts, and YES he even found the very pyramid where the shepherd from The Alchemist was supposed to have his life-changing epiphany.

But did he find the meaning of life? No. Did he find enlightenment? Maybe. But most importantly HE FOUND THIS ARABIC “DRUNK COCA-COLA” BOARD. A true masterpiece, a beacon of consumerist absurdity hidden in the sands of time. And guess what? He bought it for a criminally cheap price, tucked it under his arm like the Holy Grail, and smuggled it back to Ireland, keeping it secret for DECADES.

And now, after 30 long years, the moment has come. Uncle Peter has brought his treasure across continents, from Ireland to India, to Bodh Gaya, to Cafe Nexus. It now hangs gloriously on our wall, radiating ancient Egyptian wisdom and Coca-Cola-induced delirium.

Come, behold, and bask in its glory. And while you're at it, grab a chai because the universe works in mysterious ways, but Uncle Peter? He just works in legendary ones.

The Laughter in the Room

It always began at night, like clockwork. A stillness would settle over the house, thick and suffocating, before the first sound would escape her lips. It wasn’t laughter as most people understood it. It was guttural, almost animalistic—a sound that clawed its way out of her throat, echoing through the dimly lit room. Her face would contort, her eyes wide and unseeing, as if she had become someone else entirely.

The family called it the change.

We had seen doctors—many of them. One had said she suffered from OCD, another from an anxiety disorder, and yet another had confidently declared it was a hormonal imbalance. Weeks ago, the latest in the long line of white-coated figures had finally labeled her condition: Schizophrenia. The word hung in the air like smoke, filling every corner of the house with its weight. We were told to follow the prescribed regimen of pills and therapies, but nothing seemed to work.

Tonight, as the sound of her laughter filled the air again, my mother and younger brother rushed to her side, clutching the Qur’an. They began reciting verses, their voices trembling as they blew their breath on her face and ears, as if the words themselves could pull her out of whatever abyss she had fallen into. The room reeked of desperation.

I stood in the corner, holding the mood stabilizer in my hand. I knew it wouldn’t cure her—nothing ever did. But it would calm her for a while, quiet the storm long enough for us to feel like we had some control, even if it was just an illusion.

“She’s possessed,” my mother whispered as she clutched her prayer beads. My brother nodded solemnly, his eyes wide with fear. A few days ago, we had visited a local scholar who had breathed on a bottle of oil and declared it holy. He gave us a locket, promising it would protect her. My mother had tied it around her neck with trembling hands, her faith unwavering.

I didn’t believe in any of it—the holy oil, the verses, the locket. To me, it was all part of the same absurd play we were all acting in, each of us reciting our lines with conviction, hoping it would make a difference. But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t.

After a few minutes, I handed her the pill. She swallowed it reluctantly, and slowly, the laughter subsided. She sat on the mattress, her head tilted to one side, staring at something none of us could see.

But tonight, I tried something different.

“Look into my eyes,” I said, kneeling in front of her. She hesitated at first, her gaze flickering, but eventually, her wide, unseeing eyes locked onto mine. I held her gaze, steady and fearless, and began speaking softly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe. Positive energy is flowing into you, and negative energy is leaving you.”

Her breathing steadied slightly as I spoke. “We’ll count backward together now, from five to one. With each number, you’ll feel lighter, freer.” My voice was calm, even as my heart raced.

“Five,” I began, and she echoed the word, her voice trembling.

“Four… three…”

Her voice softened, her muscles relaxing ever so slightly.

“Two…”

“One. Now close your eyes. Let the positivity flow into you with every breath in, and let the negativity leave with every breath out.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed, and for a moment, the room felt still, almost peaceful.

My mother watched from the corner, clutching her prayer beads, her expression a mixture of hope and suspicion. My brother was silent, his eyes darting between us.

I sat back, exhaling slowly. Maybe it had helped. Maybe it hadn’t. But at least I had done something.

“She’s calmer now,” my mother whispered. “It’s the verses. They’re working.”

I didn’t argue. What was the point? Maybe they were right. Maybe I was the delusional one.

I looked at my sister as she sat there, her face blank, her laughter now replaced by a heavy silence. Was she a victim of her own mind, or was she caught in something bigger—something unknowable? I thought of my own condition, the bipolar swings that had ruled my life for as long as I could remember. Some days I felt like a god, invincible and untouchable. Other days, I sank into a pit so deep it felt like I would never climb out. And in moments like these, I wondered if my highs and lows weren’t just another manifestation of the meaningless system we were all trapped in.

The house felt like a stage, and each of us was playing a role. My mother, the believer, clinging to her prayers and rituals. My brother, the follower, reciting the words he barely understood. My sister, the subject of it all, a vessel for whatever chaos had decided to inhabit her. And me, the skeptic, the one who watched it all unfold with a strange mixture of detachment and despair.

The doctor’s prescriptions, the scholar’s blessings, my mother’s prayers, my sister’s laughter—it was all part of a grotesque, absurd dance. A Kafkaesque comedy where no one knew the rules, but everyone pretended to.

I sat down on the floor, my back against the cold wall. My sister had stopped laughing, but I knew it was only temporary. The cycle would begin again, as it always did. And I would be here, playing my role, giving her the pill, trying my futile experiments, watching my mother pray, and wondering if any of it mattered.

Outside, the wind howled like it was mocking us. I closed my eyes and thought of Camus: “Life is absurd, but we must imagine Sisyphus happy.” I opened my eyes and stared at my sister, wondering if she too was pushing her own boulder up an endless hill. Or maybe we all were.