Loosies and Stubs (Mixtape)

by Chee Malabar

(free) 03:00
(free) 03:45


Chee Malabar is one half of the hip hop outfit Himalayan Project and Oblique Brown. Firmly planted in the American experience, his music speaks on the immigrant experience, love, relationships, politics, and art.

Having released "Wince At The Sun" with Himalayan Project in 2003, Chee most recently released the eponymous LP "Oblique Brown" and an EP entitled “Dust” with long time collaborator Zeeb.

Most recently, he is at work on an album with State Island native Ali Abidi. The album, ‘Burning Tire Artisan’ is an amalgam of the personal and the political. The full length will be released in the fall of 2011.

For more information visit:

For booking information for shows, panels and appearances for Himalayan Project, Chee Malabar and Oblique Brown:
Matt Alunkal @ Red Bench Records: (347) 725-0720

For licensing queries:
Modiba Publishing
Eileen O’Neill
Operations Manager


released March 9, 2010

Production: Ali Abidi



Some rights reserved. Please refer to individual track pages for license info.


Chee Malabar Brooklyn, New York

Chee Malabar is a Los Angeles based rapper & writer.

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Track Name: Himalayan Project feat. Chee Malabar - Postcards from Paradise
I was raised in a cosmopolitan spot, caught amidst the politics of men
Where we sit, shit, frolic in dirt, smoke chronic herb and wish for things
Picture rickshaws, gaudy with yellow and black trimmings
Three wheels hydroplane, against the gravel
Through overcrowded gullies, swellin' like pregnant bellies
With monsoon rains, corrugated iron roofs, sway in the violent winds
The sediment stinks, like rotten lettuce left since spring
My ethnic settlements, evidence, decadence lives
Brown folks nude playing, bathin' shittin' drinkin' prayin'
Layin' In the same puddle, riddled with mosquitoes, the size of bald eagles
Breedin' malaria, no vaccine, ain't no quinine
We deep inside hysteria, outside of history
On the fray, lost as a paisley patterned teardrop
In the Arabian sea, off the coast of Bombay

Something like love, something like hope
Something like beautiful, something I wrote
But postcards from paradise rarely sent to me
Postcards from paradise weren't meant for me (2x)

Songs play, Ghulam Ali's urdu ghazals wailin'
from a pastry shop, Buzzing with flies, over stale things
a sepia hued veil slips over the sky
'Allah U-Akbar' a cleric's voice cries
atop the dome from a Moghul influenced minaret
across the street from a temple where drums beat to Shiva's steps
Upanishad texts, holy men in tunics bless
The destitute, prostitutes, what's the cost of truth?
A lucid clear eyed prophet sits on my stoop
His brown hair locked in a basket like strands of jute
The man's a mute, it's a wonder his mandibles move
Hurling curses, reciting verses, they say he sensed a feud
Of Hindu's murderin' Muslims and vice-a-versa
Diego, my neighbor, got his neck slit with a sickle
In the name of a sacred purge, yeah
Later that summer, my city side was swept with murder
Religious fervor

Something like love, something like hope
Something like beautiful, something I wrote
But postcards from paradise rarely sent to me
Postcards from paradise weren't meant for me (2x)

So two gods can't live in the same alley, side by side
Religious riots, firebrands scar a black night
Flashback to a past life
Fatehgunj Housing sphere's overlooking thatch and shoddy made dung huts
Shantytowns sprout then, stick out like gout
Politicians talkin' 'bout 'forward progress NOW'
So these beautiful folks had their huts burned to the ground
But genius lies in all things simplified
They'd take cow shit, mixed it with grass, a few twigs
Exposed to the sun, it hardened once plastered to a few bricks
Add some sweat and you have a makeshift apartment
Follow the stark stench of humans, fume and disease
Where my peoples get by simply on ritual beliefs
It's steeped deep in what the british did before they flee
Left more than just English literature, cricket, whiskey and tea
Psychological damage, famines, but we managed
Cause even a rose grows through cracks of concrete
And a lotus floats hope in the stream of the Ganges
There's love here, but hate too, for that you can blame karma
And nah, we just ain't Deepak Chopra and our famed martyr
So why would you wanna travel any place farther
You can come-leave-reassured, your world's a safe harbor
So here it is, the picturesque postcard you chase after
Complete with Taj Mahals, camels and snake charmers