Copper sulphate blue her grandmother
called that particular shade of blue
How did she know though,
having never set foot in a chemistry lab?
Her anklets are stiff
Like an old school friend you have lost touch with
The awkwardness soon gives way to a familiar comfort
It’s bells chattering away with every step taken
The woollen trousers and boots have been packed away
Cotton skirts voluminous and crinkled
Gently caress the soft inner skin of her thighs like a lover
Making her smile that secret smile
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
dinner
Clutching the brush and dustpan she surveyed the sickly brown striations that patterned the linoleum floor. In a far corner of her mind she heard the phone ringing. Probably her mother-in-law checking to see if her darling son had had his dinner.
Tiny mustard seeds that had found the oil too hot had pole vaulted over the rim of the non-stick wok. She liked to think that they had been cheered on by their comrades ‘Don’t worry about us. Save yourselves’.
'Yes’ she thought ‘Save yourselves. We all have to save ourselves.’ Thin green stems, denuded of their pungent curry leaves lay like felled trees. A lone pea stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, searching for kith and kin. She nudged it towards two carrot tops with her toe, but they didn’t seem to have much in common.
She got down on her knees and with long strokes ran the harsh, black bristles of the brush across the floor. The phone was ringing again. ‘Call all you want Amma. No one's answering that phone tonight’. Creeping forward, each square inch of the floor was meticulously covered as she coaxed the errant pea, unfriendly carrot tops and eel like slithers of potato skin in to a tiny heap.
‘Some more subzi dear?’ she called out, wondering whether the words would reach her husband over the din of the quarter-final highlights.
When the usual grunt failed to reach her ears she made her way to the dining table and sat opposite him. He was slumped over his plate, face submerged in rice. His dark, bald head streaked with sambar.
‘Look at the mess you’ve made.’ She chided. ‘I suppose I have to clean up? For once your mother’s right . A woman’s work is never done.’
Tiny mustard seeds that had found the oil too hot had pole vaulted over the rim of the non-stick wok. She liked to think that they had been cheered on by their comrades ‘Don’t worry about us. Save yourselves’.
'Yes’ she thought ‘Save yourselves. We all have to save ourselves.’ Thin green stems, denuded of their pungent curry leaves lay like felled trees. A lone pea stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, searching for kith and kin. She nudged it towards two carrot tops with her toe, but they didn’t seem to have much in common.
She got down on her knees and with long strokes ran the harsh, black bristles of the brush across the floor. The phone was ringing again. ‘Call all you want Amma. No one's answering that phone tonight’. Creeping forward, each square inch of the floor was meticulously covered as she coaxed the errant pea, unfriendly carrot tops and eel like slithers of potato skin in to a tiny heap.
‘Some more subzi dear?’ she called out, wondering whether the words would reach her husband over the din of the quarter-final highlights.
When the usual grunt failed to reach her ears she made her way to the dining table and sat opposite him. He was slumped over his plate, face submerged in rice. His dark, bald head streaked with sambar.
‘Look at the mess you’ve made.’ She chided. ‘I suppose I have to clean up? For once your mother’s right . A woman’s work is never done.’
Friday, June 30, 2006
Second hand love
To Mummy,
Hope you enjoy it!
Love Andrew, Anne, Olivier
I have a friend who only buys first hand books. He loves that fresh, new smell and the feel of crisp pages between his fingers. My friend’s obsession extends to newspapers as well, so much so two sets of papers are bought in his home – one for him and one for the rest of the family to crease, bend and scribble phone numbers on.
My own book buying habit began rather late in life. My family preferred library memberships. My father and I used to visit Easwari Lending Library in Royapettah and later on to Eloor in T- Nagar every Sunday afternoon. After a good hours browsing we would head to Woodlands Drive In or Gangotri and study our selection in detail over hot coffee and bondas. I somehow never felt the need to buy books.
All this of course changed once I got married and moved to Bombay. In Madras poky, ramshackle rooms that masqueraded as libraries could be found on every street corner. Alas, Bombay was bereft of a motley crew of Shakti/Murugan/Swami lending libraries. So after my husband and I had exhausted the contents of each other’s meagre collection, we proceeded to buy books. At first it was once every few weeks, when we went to town and were driving by Oxford. On moving to south Bombay, Crossword opened up down the road it was impossible not to pop in every other week and have a nose about.
By the time we moved to England our collection had grown modestly. We had 3 small cartons of books that thankfully fit in the oak bookshelf our landlord had provided us with.
In London, I once again found myself with a library membership. Our local council library was free and had a rather good collection. What’s more, books can be quite exorbitant here and picking up even 3 can set you back quite a bit.
Until I discovered charity shops. While Madras has Azhwar on Luz Corner and Bombay has the pavement shops near VT, in London the charity shop rules. Not to be confused with city’s excellent second hand bookshops that dot Charing Cross and the city’s many markets, charity shops are a different breed altogether. From Oxfam to St. Isobel’s Hospice, charities great and small in England have stores that allow patrons to contribute everything from their grandmother’s doily collection to 1930’s rocking horses. These are then resold at bargain prices, the proceeds going to fund the charity’s noble cause.
Though I’ve picked up my fair share of Victorian beer bottles, cast iron Spanish horses and other tat, my favourite charity shop buys are always books. Starting from as little as 50p and going up to hundreds and sometimes even thousands if the book in question is a collectors item, charity shops stock an amazing variety of titles. From Penny Jordan to Proust and William Shakespeare to old editions of Women’s Own they’re a great place to buy books. And perish any thought of old books in tatters and with pages missing. Nothing could be further from the truth. A few months ago I bought a hardback copy of Vikram Seth’s Two Lives that looked brand new for £2.At that price it seemed stupid not to buy it!
That’s the thing with charity shop books, the price alone can convince you to reach for your wallet. Books that you wouldn’t really want to pay full price for (Sex and the City) suddenly seem appealing at 49p. You can take risks at charity shops. Paying £12.99 for a book you’re not sure about is hard. But when the same book costs £1.99 it makes life so much easier. I’ve made some good, indifferent and excellent purchases at charity shops. While Joanna Harris was a little too sweet for me, Penguin’s Anthology of Women’s Short Stories introduced me to Angela Carter and Banana Yoshimoto.
Sometimes I buy books for silly reasons. The ‘To mummy…’ at the beginning of this piece was in a book called Slow Boats to China by Gavin Young. When I saw the spine of the book today, I realised it was the name of a blog I read. Intrigued to see what had inspired the name, I picked up the book and saw the inscription inside. It somehow made me want to read the book.
I like the idea that a book I’m holding has been read, loved or hated by someone before me. I like to think that fingers over the grainy pages and tucked old bills or pressed flowers as bookmarks. I like to think that someone else was amazed by the writer’s lyrical prose, incensed by a character’s actions or horrified at the sudden turn of events on page 234.
I don’t know if ‘Mummy’ enjoyed the book. I hope she did.
Hope you enjoy it!
Love Andrew, Anne, Olivier
I have a friend who only buys first hand books. He loves that fresh, new smell and the feel of crisp pages between his fingers. My friend’s obsession extends to newspapers as well, so much so two sets of papers are bought in his home – one for him and one for the rest of the family to crease, bend and scribble phone numbers on.
My own book buying habit began rather late in life. My family preferred library memberships. My father and I used to visit Easwari Lending Library in Royapettah and later on to Eloor in T- Nagar every Sunday afternoon. After a good hours browsing we would head to Woodlands Drive In or Gangotri and study our selection in detail over hot coffee and bondas. I somehow never felt the need to buy books.
All this of course changed once I got married and moved to Bombay. In Madras poky, ramshackle rooms that masqueraded as libraries could be found on every street corner. Alas, Bombay was bereft of a motley crew of Shakti/Murugan/Swami lending libraries. So after my husband and I had exhausted the contents of each other’s meagre collection, we proceeded to buy books. At first it was once every few weeks, when we went to town and were driving by Oxford. On moving to south Bombay, Crossword opened up down the road it was impossible not to pop in every other week and have a nose about.
By the time we moved to England our collection had grown modestly. We had 3 small cartons of books that thankfully fit in the oak bookshelf our landlord had provided us with.
In London, I once again found myself with a library membership. Our local council library was free and had a rather good collection. What’s more, books can be quite exorbitant here and picking up even 3 can set you back quite a bit.
Until I discovered charity shops. While Madras has Azhwar on Luz Corner and Bombay has the pavement shops near VT, in London the charity shop rules. Not to be confused with city’s excellent second hand bookshops that dot Charing Cross and the city’s many markets, charity shops are a different breed altogether. From Oxfam to St. Isobel’s Hospice, charities great and small in England have stores that allow patrons to contribute everything from their grandmother’s doily collection to 1930’s rocking horses. These are then resold at bargain prices, the proceeds going to fund the charity’s noble cause.
Though I’ve picked up my fair share of Victorian beer bottles, cast iron Spanish horses and other tat, my favourite charity shop buys are always books. Starting from as little as 50p and going up to hundreds and sometimes even thousands if the book in question is a collectors item, charity shops stock an amazing variety of titles. From Penny Jordan to Proust and William Shakespeare to old editions of Women’s Own they’re a great place to buy books. And perish any thought of old books in tatters and with pages missing. Nothing could be further from the truth. A few months ago I bought a hardback copy of Vikram Seth’s Two Lives that looked brand new for £2.At that price it seemed stupid not to buy it!
That’s the thing with charity shop books, the price alone can convince you to reach for your wallet. Books that you wouldn’t really want to pay full price for (Sex and the City) suddenly seem appealing at 49p. You can take risks at charity shops. Paying £12.99 for a book you’re not sure about is hard. But when the same book costs £1.99 it makes life so much easier. I’ve made some good, indifferent and excellent purchases at charity shops. While Joanna Harris was a little too sweet for me, Penguin’s Anthology of Women’s Short Stories introduced me to Angela Carter and Banana Yoshimoto.
Sometimes I buy books for silly reasons. The ‘To mummy…’ at the beginning of this piece was in a book called Slow Boats to China by Gavin Young. When I saw the spine of the book today, I realised it was the name of a blog I read. Intrigued to see what had inspired the name, I picked up the book and saw the inscription inside. It somehow made me want to read the book.
I like the idea that a book I’m holding has been read, loved or hated by someone before me. I like to think that fingers over the grainy pages and tucked old bills or pressed flowers as bookmarks. I like to think that someone else was amazed by the writer’s lyrical prose, incensed by a character’s actions or horrified at the sudden turn of events on page 234.
I don’t know if ‘Mummy’ enjoyed the book. I hope she did.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
on beauty
It seemed the world had been taken over. Dominated by faces and bodies so perfect they were freakish. Patrician noses that were once crooked. Straight, white veneers that masked 20 years of chain smoking.
She sneered at the trout pouts. Mocked the surgically enhanced feet that would be forced in to unforgiving shoes. Such vanity. Such desperation for social acceptance.
‘Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to take care of his physical inadequacies first?’ she asked friends who were under pressure to go up a cup.
The medias obsession with physical perfection made her ill. She wrote impassioned letters to networks that commissioned plastic surgery reality shows. Look 10 Years Younger. The Swan. Extreme Makeover. What was the point? So that mourners would have something nice to look at as they passed by your open casket? So that the worms and maggots that would feast off your flesh would have plump, botoxed skin to feed off.
Her friends took none of her rants seriously.
‘What do you know about sagging boobs and flabby thighs. You’re gorgeous and thin.’
‘Plenty’ she thought as she stuck her finger down her throat for the fourth time that day.
She sneered at the trout pouts. Mocked the surgically enhanced feet that would be forced in to unforgiving shoes. Such vanity. Such desperation for social acceptance.
‘Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to take care of his physical inadequacies first?’ she asked friends who were under pressure to go up a cup.
The medias obsession with physical perfection made her ill. She wrote impassioned letters to networks that commissioned plastic surgery reality shows. Look 10 Years Younger. The Swan. Extreme Makeover. What was the point? So that mourners would have something nice to look at as they passed by your open casket? So that the worms and maggots that would feast off your flesh would have plump, botoxed skin to feed off.
Her friends took none of her rants seriously.
‘What do you know about sagging boobs and flabby thighs. You’re gorgeous and thin.’
‘Plenty’ she thought as she stuck her finger down her throat for the fourth time that day.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
fifty 5
'Asshole! Stupid fucking moron what the hell do you think? What, I’m supposed to just roll over and do exactly what you want me to you pretentious son of a bitch? There’s no fucking way I am going to agree to that. Bastard.'
She nodded her head in agreement.
"Of course. Whatever you say Sir."
She nodded her head in agreement.
"Of course. Whatever you say Sir."
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Happiness is...
piping hot Leo coffee made from the very first decoction of the day
(She started it! Carry on bloggers)
Thursday, June 15, 2006
somewhere in a hotel room
It had been so long since she had stood before a mirror naked. The long and lean reflective surface was embedded in the ageing almirah of their hotel room and she prayed it would be able to contain her full figure. Her eyes fluttered over to her husband asleep on the bed. He had surely forgotten what she looked like naked. With every pound of flesh she had gained their bedroom had become a shade darker.
The light was now a flattering pale yellow. But not flattering enough. Her breasts cast misshapen shadows on the wall and the vast, lumpy expanse that was her stomach. She knew what lay below but was shy, almost afraid to look. As though it was rude to stare at one's own private parts. She glanced at her husband again to make sure he was still asleep, and then reluctantly let her eyes touch the sparse growth of hair that nestled between her thighs. Thighs that rubbed against each other with every step she took.
She turned, trying to find something she liked. But all she saw was her low slung behind. Her stomach looked even bigger from the side. She protectively cupped its drooping weight with her two hands like women did when they were pregnant. But there had never been anything there. Nor would there be.
She took in a deep breath and held it, standing straight and staring at the shadow she now cast. Everything seemed a little higher now. Her breasts. Her chin. Her mood. She smiled and crept back in to bed her mind holding on to the image it had just received.
The light was now a flattering pale yellow. But not flattering enough. Her breasts cast misshapen shadows on the wall and the vast, lumpy expanse that was her stomach. She knew what lay below but was shy, almost afraid to look. As though it was rude to stare at one's own private parts. She glanced at her husband again to make sure he was still asleep, and then reluctantly let her eyes touch the sparse growth of hair that nestled between her thighs. Thighs that rubbed against each other with every step she took.
She turned, trying to find something she liked. But all she saw was her low slung behind. Her stomach looked even bigger from the side. She protectively cupped its drooping weight with her two hands like women did when they were pregnant. But there had never been anything there. Nor would there be.
She took in a deep breath and held it, standing straight and staring at the shadow she now cast. Everything seemed a little higher now. Her breasts. Her chin. Her mood. She smiled and crept back in to bed her mind holding on to the image it had just received.
Monday, June 12, 2006
parting
We don’t have much time together. Just a few fleeting moments of togetherness before you are whisked away. I want to make the most it, but am so busy telling myself not to squander our time together that I do just that. I want to stand there and bask in your glory. Absorb every particle of your being in to my skin and soul. Instead I cower in the shadows and feel sorry for myself.
‘I’m here now! Make the most of it’ you say. But all I can think of is what it will be like when you are gone. Cold and desolate. All I can think of is how I will miss the feel of you against my skin. I sullenly reach out and as our fingers brush a warmth spreads over me.
‘Stay a little longer’ I beg. ‘Just a few more months.’
‘You always do this’ you chide. ‘You know I’ll be back’
We hold hands one last time, and as you pull away the air becomes cooler.
Goodbye summer.
(I know summer has just begun. But this is definitely how I’ll feel once this glorious season has come to an end. And my sincere apologies for not replying to any of the comments in the previous post. I fully intended to, but kept putting it off. And then didn’t. SORRY!)
‘I’m here now! Make the most of it’ you say. But all I can think of is what it will be like when you are gone. Cold and desolate. All I can think of is how I will miss the feel of you against my skin. I sullenly reach out and as our fingers brush a warmth spreads over me.
‘Stay a little longer’ I beg. ‘Just a few more months.’
‘You always do this’ you chide. ‘You know I’ll be back’
We hold hands one last time, and as you pull away the air becomes cooler.
Goodbye summer.
(I know summer has just begun. But this is definitely how I’ll feel once this glorious season has come to an end. And my sincere apologies for not replying to any of the comments in the previous post. I fully intended to, but kept putting it off. And then didn’t. SORRY!)
Friday, June 02, 2006
Enough!
Dear white people I work with,
I realise that I am one of the few Indians you encounter in your day-to-day life apart from the waiters at the local balti (who are probably Bangladeshi by the way), but I really need to clarify a few things.
1.I do not know why Indian Call Centre operators call you up 10 times a day offering you new and fantastic cell phone deals. I do not know why your bank’s back office operations in Madras have your telephone number from three houses ago. And before you crib about the fact that they cannot pronounce your name correctly, try saying Kannika Parameshwari or Somayajulu or Veerabadran.
2.Please stop asking me about female infanticide/ human sacrifices/ elephant headed Gods and poverty. I have told you all I can as best as I can. Once more, and I will be asking you about the sad state of your overly promiscuous 12 year olds who are snorting coke in class (teachers tried to wake up a ‘sleeping’ student in class only to realise that she had od-d on cocaine) and delivering babies in their bedrooms (‘I dint know I was pregnant till the baby came out. Thought it was indigestion.’ Of course you did dear).
3.I understand that your country is yet to discover that apart from black and white other colours do exist. But stop twittering every time I come to work in red or orange about ‘How it does suit you people.’ I assume by ‘you people’ you are referring to those of us that are aware of other colours. Also, please do not assume that since I display a knowledge of other 'exotic' colours it is appropriate to give me a gigantic gold bag for Christmas. It is not.
4.Yes. Ha ha. People sing and dance at regular intervals in Bollywood movies. The rest of the nation does not follow suit.
5.My grasp of the English language is far superior to yours. So please, stop whispering to one another and checking my copy. Someone who says ‘Crikey is bloody hot today innit’ probably thinks a semi colon is situated in the human body and will be unable to confirm whether it should be in a sentence or not.
Sincerely
The blue kurti wearing copywriter who was almost offered as a human sacrifice to a 23 aardvark headed God.
I realise that I am one of the few Indians you encounter in your day-to-day life apart from the waiters at the local balti (who are probably Bangladeshi by the way), but I really need to clarify a few things.
1.I do not know why Indian Call Centre operators call you up 10 times a day offering you new and fantastic cell phone deals. I do not know why your bank’s back office operations in Madras have your telephone number from three houses ago. And before you crib about the fact that they cannot pronounce your name correctly, try saying Kannika Parameshwari or Somayajulu or Veerabadran.
2.Please stop asking me about female infanticide/ human sacrifices/ elephant headed Gods and poverty. I have told you all I can as best as I can. Once more, and I will be asking you about the sad state of your overly promiscuous 12 year olds who are snorting coke in class (teachers tried to wake up a ‘sleeping’ student in class only to realise that she had od-d on cocaine) and delivering babies in their bedrooms (‘I dint know I was pregnant till the baby came out. Thought it was indigestion.’ Of course you did dear).
3.I understand that your country is yet to discover that apart from black and white other colours do exist. But stop twittering every time I come to work in red or orange about ‘How it does suit you people.’ I assume by ‘you people’ you are referring to those of us that are aware of other colours. Also, please do not assume that since I display a knowledge of other 'exotic' colours it is appropriate to give me a gigantic gold bag for Christmas. It is not.
4.Yes. Ha ha. People sing and dance at regular intervals in Bollywood movies. The rest of the nation does not follow suit.
5.My grasp of the English language is far superior to yours. So please, stop whispering to one another and checking my copy. Someone who says ‘Crikey is bloody hot today innit’ probably thinks a semi colon is situated in the human body and will be unable to confirm whether it should be in a sentence or not.
Sincerely
The blue kurti wearing copywriter who was almost offered as a human sacrifice to a 23 aardvark headed God.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Still not in the mood...
A giant fish's skeleton swims by lazily. I see the head first - the single, large marble-like eye fixing a startled look on me. The curves of the body remind me of the hump of a normal distribution curve. The bones a delicate, feathery white. The arch tapers off in to the tail bone, covered by a long, white, whithered tube sock. A man's tube sock. Nike. The swoosh is faint.
The sky is a wonderful place to cloud fish. And today's catch wasn't all that bad.
The sky is a wonderful place to cloud fish. And today's catch wasn't all that bad.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Lost
am back from my vacation... feeling far too lazy to write something new, so here's something old.
-----
The sheets arched and dipped around them – cool, 360 thread count waves of the finest cotton. They were weary seafarers desperate to reach home. No longer enamoured by the possibility of serendipitous discoveries, for they knew of all the secret isles and dark depths the other concealed; worn maps that were once traversed and marked by fingers trembling with the joy that uncharted territories command.
Scented candles were lit, perhaps to show them the way. But instead their perfume cloyed, and the flames illuminated their inadequacies.
They floundered in the now tepid waters of their four-poster bed, drowning within the folds of its Zen minimalism. He threw the voluminous cotton off – a veritable Moses parting the seas and guiding his beloved to the Promised Land. But she shivered, cowering under his gesture of bravado.
They thrashed about - an attempt to create a tempest with their lukewarm passion. But there was no storm. Just the mildest of ripples. They drifted away clutching on to their driftwood pillows. Two castaways washed up on the shores of dissatisfaction.
-----
The sheets arched and dipped around them – cool, 360 thread count waves of the finest cotton. They were weary seafarers desperate to reach home. No longer enamoured by the possibility of serendipitous discoveries, for they knew of all the secret isles and dark depths the other concealed; worn maps that were once traversed and marked by fingers trembling with the joy that uncharted territories command.
Scented candles were lit, perhaps to show them the way. But instead their perfume cloyed, and the flames illuminated their inadequacies.
They floundered in the now tepid waters of their four-poster bed, drowning within the folds of its Zen minimalism. He threw the voluminous cotton off – a veritable Moses parting the seas and guiding his beloved to the Promised Land. But she shivered, cowering under his gesture of bravado.
They thrashed about - an attempt to create a tempest with their lukewarm passion. But there was no storm. Just the mildest of ripples. They drifted away clutching on to their driftwood pillows. Two castaways washed up on the shores of dissatisfaction.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Spring break
The next few weeks promise to be busy with work and two holidays. So I'm going to take a short break from blogging. See you all in the summer.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Banned
There just doesn't seem to be enough time. Sunday magazines lie by the bed, articles bookmarked for future reading and recipe's ripped out for testing on my guinea pig - The Sherpa. Music waiting to be released from the confines of their electronic homes so that they may slip in and tickle the crevices of my ear. Books bought and borrowed beckon me with words, stories and characters. Tempting me to lose myself in them and ignore the persistent whistle of the milk cooker. All these things languish in the corners of my life. While I go through the motions of every day life.
So I'm going on a weeklong Television ban. Just to re-evaluate its role in my life. The Sherpa thinks I'm being extreme and won't last till the end of the day. Watch this space to find out how it goes!
So I'm going on a weeklong Television ban. Just to re-evaluate its role in my life. The Sherpa thinks I'm being extreme and won't last till the end of the day. Watch this space to find out how it goes!
Friday, March 31, 2006
Don’t call mommy a bitch and eat that fruit
Switch on your television. Go on, I know you want to. If you have cable I’m sure a majority of the programs on your listings page are reality shows of some kind.
My first recollection of a reality show is MTV Road Rules and that other show about hot, 20 something guys and girls all living together in a cool condo - Big Brother in perhaps its earliest avatar (anyone remember the name of that show?) Survivor and its spin offs all figure much later in my time line of reality shows (but I could be wrong, so feel free to correct me).
We’ve had all kinds of reality shows – teams battling it out on exotic islands for money, people eating kangaroo testicles for money, people getting plastic surgery live without paying any money. But the ones that interest me the most are the new breed of shows. (well, new to me) The ‘let us help make your life better’ shows. They’re all over the place tackling every aspect of human life – financial, sexual, romantic and professional.
Got problems with the kids? Call Supernanny. £40,000 in debt? Watch Bank of Mum and Dad (poor unsuspecting parents who think Jr. is £300 in debt find out they need to add a few extra zeroes to the figure). Not able to prevent your children from growing up to be ASBO awarded, drug selling yobs? Tune in to Honey, we’re Killing the Kids. Missed health ed classes and don’t know that brushing your teeth twice a day is good for you? Don’t worry you can always find out about the benefits of toothpaste by watching Too Posh to Wash.
The scary thing is that the above list is very real. And just skims the surface. Pay off your mortgage in 2 years, Look 10 years younger, You are What you Eat… the list of shows is endless. Forget DIY programs, what you should be watching these days is hour long specials on how to fix your life, not bad plumbing.
So why are these programs so popular? Why do parents need to be told that it’s not ok for their diabetic 6 year old to be eating Kit Kats every day and that it will kill them? Why do young people not know that it’s a bad idea to be 50k in debt and that declaring bankruptcy is not a fun thing to do? It’s appalling to see how inept some people are at – well running their lives. And that they need to be told s-l-o-w-l-y by a posh dietician and therapist to eat a bit more fruit and veg everyday and that their 4 year old should not call mummy a bitch.
So I’m wondering – what is it that’s made people this way? Is it family background? A lack of basic education? Sheer stupidity?
These shows are on air because there’s a need for them. And they’re probably helping a lot of people out there. But if we think the government is getting too nanny-ish for our liking, what do we have to say about our television channels?
And I can’t help but wonder where all this is leading? Learn to make your own bed shows? Don’t forget to take out the trash specials? How to chew your food documentaries?
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and set some emotional boundaries with The Sherpa. The television told me to.
My first recollection of a reality show is MTV Road Rules and that other show about hot, 20 something guys and girls all living together in a cool condo - Big Brother in perhaps its earliest avatar (anyone remember the name of that show?) Survivor and its spin offs all figure much later in my time line of reality shows (but I could be wrong, so feel free to correct me).
We’ve had all kinds of reality shows – teams battling it out on exotic islands for money, people eating kangaroo testicles for money, people getting plastic surgery live without paying any money. But the ones that interest me the most are the new breed of shows. (well, new to me) The ‘let us help make your life better’ shows. They’re all over the place tackling every aspect of human life – financial, sexual, romantic and professional.
Got problems with the kids? Call Supernanny. £40,000 in debt? Watch Bank of Mum and Dad (poor unsuspecting parents who think Jr. is £300 in debt find out they need to add a few extra zeroes to the figure). Not able to prevent your children from growing up to be ASBO awarded, drug selling yobs? Tune in to Honey, we’re Killing the Kids. Missed health ed classes and don’t know that brushing your teeth twice a day is good for you? Don’t worry you can always find out about the benefits of toothpaste by watching Too Posh to Wash.
The scary thing is that the above list is very real. And just skims the surface. Pay off your mortgage in 2 years, Look 10 years younger, You are What you Eat… the list of shows is endless. Forget DIY programs, what you should be watching these days is hour long specials on how to fix your life, not bad plumbing.
So why are these programs so popular? Why do parents need to be told that it’s not ok for their diabetic 6 year old to be eating Kit Kats every day and that it will kill them? Why do young people not know that it’s a bad idea to be 50k in debt and that declaring bankruptcy is not a fun thing to do? It’s appalling to see how inept some people are at – well running their lives. And that they need to be told s-l-o-w-l-y by a posh dietician and therapist to eat a bit more fruit and veg everyday and that their 4 year old should not call mummy a bitch.
So I’m wondering – what is it that’s made people this way? Is it family background? A lack of basic education? Sheer stupidity?
These shows are on air because there’s a need for them. And they’re probably helping a lot of people out there. But if we think the government is getting too nanny-ish for our liking, what do we have to say about our television channels?
And I can’t help but wonder where all this is leading? Learn to make your own bed shows? Don’t forget to take out the trash specials? How to chew your food documentaries?
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and set some emotional boundaries with The Sherpa. The television told me to.
Pervert?
What can I say about this man? Nothing I should think as I am no authority on The Bard. His complete works weighs down my book shelf and I have every intention of reading the entire thing. One day. Honest.
We’ve credited him with adding over 1700 common words to our vocabulary, quoted him and made movies about him.
And now
‘A new edition of Shakespeare's collected works reveals that smuttiness is at the very heart of the Bard's plays. Heloise Senechal, the textual editor of The RSC Shakespeare, joins Mark Lawson to explain why she thinks previous editions have been too prudish, and how computer techniques helped her uncover the fact that Shakespeare's work is absolutely `packed with filth'.’
Source: The BBC website.
To listen to an interview with Heloise Senechal go here
And scroll down till you see Filthy Shakespeare.
It's a segment on a show called Front Row.
Very interesting, indeed.
SHOE FETISHIST SEEKS SHOE FIEND
Note
That’s the gist of what someone asked me recently in the comments section of www.desicritics.org What an excellent profile to put up in a lonely hearts column, I thought, thinking of all the wonderfully weird people it would attract.
Every Friday The Independent publishes its Arts & Books Review, a 40 page supplement bursting with well written reviews and profiles. The last page is always devoted to Great Works – an in depth analysis of a piece of art and it’s creator that I always mean to read but never get around to. Cultural Life takes a brief look in to what singers, actors and directors are reading, watching and listening to. On one page they rip a movie apart and in the next they are interviewing its director. It’s a supplement that is entertaining, informative and above all well written.
Till recently however, there was always one part of the supplement that I blipped over. The Independent Personals. Why would I bother, I’m happily married after all. (that should put The Sherpa at ease… now time to delete my perfectmatch.com profile)
But a delay on the train home last week (a rather permanent fixture in my life these days) left me bored. So I thought ‘let’s see what the market is like!’
A quick skim through the columns revealed that most of the singletons writing in to this particular publication were above 40 (Though there were 20 and 30 somethings, they were outnumbered by their more mature comrades). There were even a few 60 plussers in there.
Each profile had a little caption in bold – a hook I guess to attract the attention of skimmers like me. I present to you here some of my favourites (edited).
Women seeking Men
AISLE BE THERE FOR YOU
Genuine, attractive, mixed race F in 40’s seeks Arab, European, Indian M 35-60 looking for relationship and possible marriage.
GENTLEMEN REQUIRED
50+ to join five ladies for dinners in May.
NOT TOO MANY THORNS
Genuine F, 45, neglected rose, seeks loving M
I’M ONLY HUMAN
Down to earth, kind, witty …
DELECTABLE SEEKS INTELLECTUAL
Russian/British Londoner 40 slim blonde, chic, integrity, eccentricity, Worshipper of intellect, I promise that a thinking, outstanding man would never get bored of me.
GET UP AND GO FOR IT
Genuine F, 60 with plenty of get up and go…
Men seeking Women
DO IT OURSELVES
Gentle, affectionate M 47, likes DIY…
GARTER GET YOU INTO MY LIFE
Attractive M seeks intelligent, attractive, stocking clad F
Men seeking Men
DAMSEL IN DIS-DRESS
Good looking 43 year old cross-dressing M seeks kind person to have fun with
Women Seeking Women
SO FERRARI SO GOODIE
Recycled Ferrari, 43 seeks TLC from a caring gay F for possible long-term ownership.
It’s nice to see that in spite of all the divorce statistics being thrown at us and the constant reports of celebrity marriages falling apart people are still looking for friendship, love and the odd used car. Here’s to you singletons!
That’s the gist of what someone asked me recently in the comments section of www.desicritics.org What an excellent profile to put up in a lonely hearts column, I thought, thinking of all the wonderfully weird people it would attract.
Every Friday The Independent publishes its Arts & Books Review, a 40 page supplement bursting with well written reviews and profiles. The last page is always devoted to Great Works – an in depth analysis of a piece of art and it’s creator that I always mean to read but never get around to. Cultural Life takes a brief look in to what singers, actors and directors are reading, watching and listening to. On one page they rip a movie apart and in the next they are interviewing its director. It’s a supplement that is entertaining, informative and above all well written.
Till recently however, there was always one part of the supplement that I blipped over. The Independent Personals. Why would I bother, I’m happily married after all. (that should put The Sherpa at ease… now time to delete my perfectmatch.com profile)
But a delay on the train home last week (a rather permanent fixture in my life these days) left me bored. So I thought ‘let’s see what the market is like!’
A quick skim through the columns revealed that most of the singletons writing in to this particular publication were above 40 (Though there were 20 and 30 somethings, they were outnumbered by their more mature comrades). There were even a few 60 plussers in there.
Each profile had a little caption in bold – a hook I guess to attract the attention of skimmers like me. I present to you here some of my favourites (edited).
Women seeking Men
AISLE BE THERE FOR YOU
Genuine, attractive, mixed race F in 40’s seeks Arab, European, Indian M 35-60 looking for relationship and possible marriage.
GENTLEMEN REQUIRED
50+ to join five ladies for dinners in May.
NOT TOO MANY THORNS
Genuine F, 45, neglected rose, seeks loving M
I’M ONLY HUMAN
Down to earth, kind, witty …
DELECTABLE SEEKS INTELLECTUAL
Russian/British Londoner 40 slim blonde, chic, integrity, eccentricity, Worshipper of intellect, I promise that a thinking, outstanding man would never get bored of me.
GET UP AND GO FOR IT
Genuine F, 60 with plenty of get up and go…
Men seeking Women
DO IT OURSELVES
Gentle, affectionate M 47, likes DIY…
GARTER GET YOU INTO MY LIFE
Attractive M seeks intelligent, attractive, stocking clad F
Men seeking Men
DAMSEL IN DIS-DRESS
Good looking 43 year old cross-dressing M seeks kind person to have fun with
Women Seeking Women
SO FERRARI SO GOODIE
Recycled Ferrari, 43 seeks TLC from a caring gay F for possible long-term ownership.
It’s nice to see that in spite of all the divorce statistics being thrown at us and the constant reports of celebrity marriages falling apart people are still looking for friendship, love and the odd used car. Here’s to you singletons!
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
school
I rarely think of school days. Today my art partner's samosa reminded me of a friend that used to steal them from the canteen! And that seemed to open a little trap door in my head to a time when I wore two plaits and a very unbecoming blue pinafore.
i
The quadrangle is flooded.
Blue pinafores hitched up at the knees
And unpolished, dusty, Bata shoes
Suddenly glisten
polished by dirty puddles of rain water
Braids are straightened – one fat and one thin
Meenakshi never gets them right
The uniform monitor scrutinises us
And we say a silent thanks to the rain
For shining our shoes
If only it had washed away the nail polish
We think, kneeling outside our classroom
ii
Fountain Pepsi arrives at school
We queue and jostle
School bags are upturned for loose change
Bus and lunch money is spent
One Pepsi is purchased
And passed around
We feel like college boys sharing a cigarette
And giggle
iii
Our
class
is
standing
single
file
in
the
prayer
hall
I
Open
One
Eye
And
See
The
Oiled
hair
of
the
Girl
Before
me.
two
head
lice
crawl
out
single
file
and
look
at
me.
i
think
i
The quadrangle is flooded.
Blue pinafores hitched up at the knees
And unpolished, dusty, Bata shoes
Suddenly glisten
polished by dirty puddles of rain water
Braids are straightened – one fat and one thin
Meenakshi never gets them right
The uniform monitor scrutinises us
And we say a silent thanks to the rain
For shining our shoes
If only it had washed away the nail polish
We think, kneeling outside our classroom
ii
Fountain Pepsi arrives at school
We queue and jostle
School bags are upturned for loose change
Bus and lunch money is spent
One Pepsi is purchased
And passed around
We feel like college boys sharing a cigarette
And giggle
iii
Our
class
is
standing
single
file
in
the
prayer
hall
I
Open
One
Eye
And
See
The
Oiled
hair
of
the
Girl
Before
me.
two
head
lice
crawl
out
single
file
and
look
at
me.
i
think
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Bits and pieces
During rush hour the carriage is packed tighter than my holiday suitcase. Stragglers are shoved in to tiny crevices while the lucky ones sit neatly folded in their seats. I am a chiffon blouse after thought pressed up against a pinstriped suit in a similar predicament. Strangers savouring the intimate details of each other’s lives. Close enough to smell perfumes and aftershaves, smirk at love bites and count pimples.In the evening I study the council houses and apartment blocks of suburbia from my window. So close, like J.J flyover where flowered balconies and sagging clotheslines seem close enough to touch. Here, I cannot touch. So I see. Red walls, kitchen dramas, glowing televisions. Scenes of domestic bliss. Or so they seem from afar. Do they look out as I look in?
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Mami here's your gift - Haggis!
Come April and the Sherpa and I will be making our first trip home since coming to London. It’s been a year and a half – the longest I’ve ever been without seeing my family. Excited doesn’t do justice to how I feel right now. It’s almost as though I’m cocooned by a bubble of elation, floating along with not a care in the world (hey I survived a week of Christmas merriment in March didn’t I?)
Going home requires much thought and preparation. Getting the best deal on your tickets, convincing your boss that 3 weeks is not too much vacation to ask for (oh and could I have a couple of weeks off in June too?), thinking of all the things I’ve been deprived of in London – like my mother’s cooking - and making plans to ensure I get enough of it while I’m in Madras. But if there’s one thing that eclipses all these other tasks it’s The Shopping (we should give it the respect it deserves).
I remember as a child, preparation for our annual vacations back to Madras would begin months in advance. One could always tell that The Shopping season was about to begin when our post box became jammed with blue aerogrammes from India and phone calls from Aunties who had not spoken to us since our last jaunt home, telling us how pleased they were that we were coming and how they couldn’t wait to see us (and our luggage I’m sure)
My mother became the family Santa Claus, getting requests from nieces and nephews. Whether they had been naughty or nice they all got what they asked for. Maybelline announced record breaking quarterly profits and Mattel would have gone bust if it wasn’t for our trips home.
Fast Forward 15 years and one would think there’s no need for the going home shopping anymore. After all, there’s hardly anything you don’t get in India these days. That apparently is not the case. As a friend of mine said ‘everyone from the neighbour's servant to the ball boy at The Mylapore Club must be gavunichified or taken care of’.
Now being a pro-shopper I though it would be a cinch doing The Shopping. So I drew up a list of people that I felt should benefit from my largesse and what would be suitable gifts for each of them. Feeling rather smug about my meticulousness I called my mother the Queen Bee of shopping (and the donor of rather outstanding retail loving genes) and boasted about my list. Our conversation went somewhat like this:
‘Oh but what about so-and-so Aunty?’
‘Her? Why do I have to get her anything?’
‘She gave you a silver lamp when you left for London.’
‘I never got a silver lamp.’
‘Oh that’s because I took it and gave it to so-and-so for their wedding.’
And so the list grew and pretty soon included neighbours who had moved in after I left home, third cousins thrice removed and the corner wino Muniyandi. Armed with the list, the sherpa and I headed out. ‘Remember, stay focused’ the sherpa warned. I scoffed at the suggestion that I may be side tracked from my mission (forgetting how well he knows me).
Temptation was everywhere. I would stroke handbags far too young for my 60 plus Aunt and hold up dresses two sizes too small for my neighbour’s daughter (but just right for me!). My husband joked about putting me on a leash and after an hour had to surgically attach his hand to my upper arm (even a saunter through the lingerie department wouldn’t shake him off – and that always works)
Once my roving eye was under control, we faced another problem. Everything was made in India. And the last thing I wanted was to give someone an overpriced t-shirt made in Tirupur only have them to say to me ‘You could have got this for a fraction of the price in Tirupur!’
We pretty quickly realised that other than very high end fashion and food there’s very little actually made in this country. And seeing that none of our orthodox Tam Brahm relatives would appreciate a leg of lamb, roast beef or a Vivienne Westwood corset we began looking for things made in other ‘phoren’ countries. Vietnam! Thailand! China!
A search that yielded much better results than tartan kilts (though I do think they’d make a rather interesting substitute for lungis).
In the last three weekends we’ve managed to amass a small mountain of cheaply made overpriced goods. Almost every name on our list has been crossed off. With the sole exception of Muiyandi the wino. A bottle of Grey Goose perhaps?
Going home requires much thought and preparation. Getting the best deal on your tickets, convincing your boss that 3 weeks is not too much vacation to ask for (oh and could I have a couple of weeks off in June too?), thinking of all the things I’ve been deprived of in London – like my mother’s cooking - and making plans to ensure I get enough of it while I’m in Madras. But if there’s one thing that eclipses all these other tasks it’s The Shopping (we should give it the respect it deserves).
I remember as a child, preparation for our annual vacations back to Madras would begin months in advance. One could always tell that The Shopping season was about to begin when our post box became jammed with blue aerogrammes from India and phone calls from Aunties who had not spoken to us since our last jaunt home, telling us how pleased they were that we were coming and how they couldn’t wait to see us (and our luggage I’m sure)
My mother became the family Santa Claus, getting requests from nieces and nephews. Whether they had been naughty or nice they all got what they asked for. Maybelline announced record breaking quarterly profits and Mattel would have gone bust if it wasn’t for our trips home.
Fast Forward 15 years and one would think there’s no need for the going home shopping anymore. After all, there’s hardly anything you don’t get in India these days. That apparently is not the case. As a friend of mine said ‘everyone from the neighbour's servant to the ball boy at The Mylapore Club must be gavunichified or taken care of’.
Now being a pro-shopper I though it would be a cinch doing The Shopping. So I drew up a list of people that I felt should benefit from my largesse and what would be suitable gifts for each of them. Feeling rather smug about my meticulousness I called my mother the Queen Bee of shopping (and the donor of rather outstanding retail loving genes) and boasted about my list. Our conversation went somewhat like this:
‘Oh but what about so-and-so Aunty?’
‘Her? Why do I have to get her anything?’
‘She gave you a silver lamp when you left for London.’
‘I never got a silver lamp.’
‘Oh that’s because I took it and gave it to so-and-so for their wedding.’
And so the list grew and pretty soon included neighbours who had moved in after I left home, third cousins thrice removed and the corner wino Muniyandi. Armed with the list, the sherpa and I headed out. ‘Remember, stay focused’ the sherpa warned. I scoffed at the suggestion that I may be side tracked from my mission (forgetting how well he knows me).
Temptation was everywhere. I would stroke handbags far too young for my 60 plus Aunt and hold up dresses two sizes too small for my neighbour’s daughter (but just right for me!). My husband joked about putting me on a leash and after an hour had to surgically attach his hand to my upper arm (even a saunter through the lingerie department wouldn’t shake him off – and that always works)
Once my roving eye was under control, we faced another problem. Everything was made in India. And the last thing I wanted was to give someone an overpriced t-shirt made in Tirupur only have them to say to me ‘You could have got this for a fraction of the price in Tirupur!’
We pretty quickly realised that other than very high end fashion and food there’s very little actually made in this country. And seeing that none of our orthodox Tam Brahm relatives would appreciate a leg of lamb, roast beef or a Vivienne Westwood corset we began looking for things made in other ‘phoren’ countries. Vietnam! Thailand! China!
A search that yielded much better results than tartan kilts (though I do think they’d make a rather interesting substitute for lungis).
In the last three weekends we’ve managed to amass a small mountain of cheaply made overpriced goods. Almost every name on our list has been crossed off. With the sole exception of Muiyandi the wino. A bottle of Grey Goose perhaps?
Thursday, March 23, 2006
My god those bunnies are aliens!
Who am I kidding - at times (and by that I mean most no all of the time) my job can be the equivalent of Haemorrhoids. (I don't know what Haemorrhoids are but they sound pretty painful)
I quote from a brief sent over by a client
"We want to promote disco dancing at the centre. Something along the lines of 'if you like to boogie come and strut your stuff at Disco Dancers - the funkiest dance class around. Bop like your favourite pop star...' you get the idea."
Sigh. And to make matters worse I've been asked to start working on Christmas 2006. It's not even Easter yet you consumerist pagans! For a client by the way that won't let us shoot with Volkswagens because (please read in a Manchester accent. Think Daphne from Frasier) 'OOh not Volkswagens. I knew a girl who had one once and I didn't like her very much.'
Hard to argue with logic like that eh?
So how does one stay sane in such situations?
I present to you Angry Alien. And will say nothing more!
P.s Suggestions on how one can top "Park the Herald Angel sings? will be most welcome!
I quote from a brief sent over by a client
"We want to promote disco dancing at the centre. Something along the lines of 'if you like to boogie come and strut your stuff at Disco Dancers - the funkiest dance class around. Bop like your favourite pop star...' you get the idea."
Sigh. And to make matters worse I've been asked to start working on Christmas 2006. It's not even Easter yet you consumerist pagans! For a client by the way that won't let us shoot with Volkswagens because (please read in a Manchester accent. Think Daphne from Frasier) 'OOh not Volkswagens. I knew a girl who had one once and I didn't like her very much.'
Hard to argue with logic like that eh?
So how does one stay sane in such situations?
I present to you Angry Alien. And will say nothing more!
P.s Suggestions on how one can top "Park the Herald Angel sings? will be most welcome!
Friday, March 17, 2006
Friday is Amish Day
Friday. The end of the week and the beginning of the weekend. After 5 days of writing inane radio jingles, direct mailers disguised as exotic drinks from the Tiki Bar and television commercials that involve mannequins coming to life I am tired. My mind that was fully functioning at the start of the week has slowly degenerated in to semi-comatose entity that hardly knows what it’s telling the rest of my body to do.
As you can all imagine this has many fallouts. I begin to use words like ‘sparkly’ and ‘fabulous’ with reckless abandon. I find myself watching Project Catwalk and tearing up when the winner is announced. But nowhere else are the repercussions felt more than in the wardrobe department. Yes, by Friday I have become a sartorially challenged wreck who would make Trinny and Susannah rub their posh, breast grabbing hands in glee.
Now I’m no fashion plate. I don’t take to every word printed by Vogue as The Truth (if you ask me leggings and knickerbockers should have left behind in the 80’s along with perms and Rick Astley). But I do consider myself well dressed and make some effort in deciding what to wear (without being obsessive and ‘visualising’ outfits as the wonderfully trashy Victoria Beckham suggests).
It’s not like I wake up Friday morning and decide to look ugly. No it’s a gradual process that starts on Wednesday around tea time and kicks in to full gear by Friday morning. On Friday morning everything seems pointless and a waste of time.
Why bother with hair soufflés? (Children please don’t try eating them. Even the ones that say they’re Banana flavoured.) After all your hair just ends up looking like a bird’s nest thanks to the gale 3 winds blowing outside. And not even a cool bird’s nest like those kids in Camden Lock sport. No, just a sad ‘I’m 25 and am pretending to be 15’ looking one whose only redeeming quality is that it smells of banana soufflé. And I’m not even sure that’s a redeeming quality anymore.
On Friday morning I look at my mascara wand and think why bother? My eyelashes are notoriously clannish and insist of sticking together instead of spreading out in to long, elegant black whips. Eyeliner makes me look more Panda chic than exotic Indian and my lipstick seems to develop an inordinate fondness for my teeth.
But the worst thing on Friday is honestly what I wear. Let’s take what today’s outfit for example. For some strange reason I decided today was Amish Day. Long, frumpy denim skirt, starched white shirt and a blue sweater vest. (Don’t even ask my why I own as sweater vest) And to make matters worse I decided to slick my hair in to the most unprepossessing of buns. So not only do I look Amish, I look like an Amish School Marm.
The full extent of my fashion suicide is only apparent to me when I reach the train station. And then suddenly I’m surrounded by slick, put together women carrying Mulberry bags and draped in pashmina shawls. Their hair and make-up is perfect and I just know that underneath that tweed but not tweedy suit exist legs natural tans bestowed upon them by a Caribbean sun.
And they all look at me with pity. Wondering simultaneously when they started letting the Amish in to Britain. I usually use my newspaper as a defence. I hide behind the moral and intellectual superiority of The Independent trying to cast an
eye-rolling ‘oh-my-god’ you’re reading Heat? Which makes trying to cop a look at the Britney’s New Bump headline very difficult by the way.
And if getting to work is bad, then the journey home is even worse. Friday night revellers heading out to get smashed line the platforms like twinkling fairy lights. I try and skulk by them, hoping to draw as little attention to myself as possible. And then I catch it - that wry, sardonic eyebrow lift and lip curl from some nubile nineteen year old. I try not to have uncharitable thoughts or shout out ‘Bet you don’t know the GDP of Ukraine.’ But then neither do I so I skulk on to the farthest corner of the platform trying not to stare at the tonguing twelve year olds.
I’ve channelled a number of It’s Friday looks over the years. Immigrant cleaning lady. Garbage bag lady. Lady who looks like she lives alone with 10 cats. Lady who looks like she’s hiding one of those cats under her jumper.
So why don’t I buck up and make some effort on Fridays? Well in a few seasons some upstart fashion designer could be selling haute couture Amish School Marm dresses to an unprepared and unsuspecting public. And boy will I be ready for it.
As you can all imagine this has many fallouts. I begin to use words like ‘sparkly’ and ‘fabulous’ with reckless abandon. I find myself watching Project Catwalk and tearing up when the winner is announced. But nowhere else are the repercussions felt more than in the wardrobe department. Yes, by Friday I have become a sartorially challenged wreck who would make Trinny and Susannah rub their posh, breast grabbing hands in glee.
Now I’m no fashion plate. I don’t take to every word printed by Vogue as The Truth (if you ask me leggings and knickerbockers should have left behind in the 80’s along with perms and Rick Astley). But I do consider myself well dressed and make some effort in deciding what to wear (without being obsessive and ‘visualising’ outfits as the wonderfully trashy Victoria Beckham suggests).
It’s not like I wake up Friday morning and decide to look ugly. No it’s a gradual process that starts on Wednesday around tea time and kicks in to full gear by Friday morning. On Friday morning everything seems pointless and a waste of time.
Why bother with hair soufflés? (Children please don’t try eating them. Even the ones that say they’re Banana flavoured.) After all your hair just ends up looking like a bird’s nest thanks to the gale 3 winds blowing outside. And not even a cool bird’s nest like those kids in Camden Lock sport. No, just a sad ‘I’m 25 and am pretending to be 15’ looking one whose only redeeming quality is that it smells of banana soufflé. And I’m not even sure that’s a redeeming quality anymore.
On Friday morning I look at my mascara wand and think why bother? My eyelashes are notoriously clannish and insist of sticking together instead of spreading out in to long, elegant black whips. Eyeliner makes me look more Panda chic than exotic Indian and my lipstick seems to develop an inordinate fondness for my teeth.
But the worst thing on Friday is honestly what I wear. Let’s take what today’s outfit for example. For some strange reason I decided today was Amish Day. Long, frumpy denim skirt, starched white shirt and a blue sweater vest. (Don’t even ask my why I own as sweater vest) And to make matters worse I decided to slick my hair in to the most unprepossessing of buns. So not only do I look Amish, I look like an Amish School Marm.
The full extent of my fashion suicide is only apparent to me when I reach the train station. And then suddenly I’m surrounded by slick, put together women carrying Mulberry bags and draped in pashmina shawls. Their hair and make-up is perfect and I just know that underneath that tweed but not tweedy suit exist legs natural tans bestowed upon them by a Caribbean sun.
And they all look at me with pity. Wondering simultaneously when they started letting the Amish in to Britain. I usually use my newspaper as a defence. I hide behind the moral and intellectual superiority of The Independent trying to cast an
eye-rolling ‘oh-my-god’ you’re reading Heat? Which makes trying to cop a look at the Britney’s New Bump headline very difficult by the way.
And if getting to work is bad, then the journey home is even worse. Friday night revellers heading out to get smashed line the platforms like twinkling fairy lights. I try and skulk by them, hoping to draw as little attention to myself as possible. And then I catch it - that wry, sardonic eyebrow lift and lip curl from some nubile nineteen year old. I try not to have uncharitable thoughts or shout out ‘Bet you don’t know the GDP of Ukraine.’ But then neither do I so I skulk on to the farthest corner of the platform trying not to stare at the tonguing twelve year olds.
I’ve channelled a number of It’s Friday looks over the years. Immigrant cleaning lady. Garbage bag lady. Lady who looks like she lives alone with 10 cats. Lady who looks like she’s hiding one of those cats under her jumper.
So why don’t I buck up and make some effort on Fridays? Well in a few seasons some upstart fashion designer could be selling haute couture Amish School Marm dresses to an unprepared and unsuspecting public. And boy will I be ready for it.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Trapped
Dressed in wispy whites, polka dots and resplendent in floral overtures the shop windows of London have decided that spring is upon us. Bikinis worthy of St. Bart’s, peep toed shoes and dresses that would do the wives of Stepford proud beg to be bought. The burgundies and golds of Christmas have been replaced by citrus and the sea. Santa and Rudolph have made way for Malibu Barbie and mopeds. I walk past Miami Beach, The Parisian Left Bank and Marrakech. Names trying to exotify the cheap, Taiwanese garments being hawked.
But this spring blooms only in the glass enclosures covered in fake sand and redolent plastic daffodils. It borders the streets but does not spill in to it.
For on the other side of these Windolened barriers the world is colder. The sun does not shine. The trees are bare - branches sharp and angular like the teeth of a comb housing jaunty hairball nests. Feet blinded by wool socks and boots – denied the views the peep toes promise. The living shrouded in layers of cloth – hiding from the cold.
I hurry on. Fighting the urge to shatter glass and set spring free.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
First love + Railway station
Note Here is my last assignment for the class. Sightly modified.
Howard takes advice from a Mars Bar
'Platform 11A for the 09:06 train to Peterborough. Calling at Finsbury Park, Potter's Bar, Hatfield…'
Even though he had been taking the same train to work every day for the last 4 years, Howard waited till his station was announced before setting off towards 11A. He merged in to the mass of commuters – an ominous black cloud floating down the platform. People whose taste in music, movies and preferred sexual positions varied yet nearly all of them concurred black was the chosen colour when it came to winter coats.
Howard settled down in his seat. Newspaper neatly folded on his lap, waiting to be read. Mars Bar in his pocket waiting to be consumed. Howard himself, waiting for the regulars to board the train. There was Perennial Blue Suit – so typically English that it had been almost two years of travelling together before he nodded at Howard. There was Tour de France with his cycle and Learn Spanish in a week book. He had been reading it for a month now and hadn't got beyond 'How to ask for directions'. There was Funny Girl - Asian and always laughing uproariously garnering her disapproving looks from Perennial Blue Suit. There was Essex Emily lamenting on the phone to an assortment of girlfriends about ex-lovers, tyrannical bosses and Big Brother house evictees. Howard often marvelled about how much and how little he knew of these people he spent every morning with.
After the usual safety announcements the doors shut, locking out the usual latecomers wearing the usual expression of frustration and loss. You'd think they'd be used to it by now.
As the train pulled out of King's Cross Howard tugged out the Mars Bar and studied the familiar black packaging. Familiar. The word seemed to describe every aspect of his life. His job. The view from the window he sat by. His ring tone. They were all so disgustingly predictable. Self-loathing rose up in his throat like bile.
He turned the bar around in his hands. What was their new campaign? Do something new every day? I can do better stuff than that. But you aren’t. No, instead Howard wrote copy for insurance companies. Telling people what they were entitled to if they lost an arm or an eye. That their policy didn’t cover damage caused by ‘Acts of God.’
Howard deferred reading the paper to thinking over the proposition. Maybe I could buy a different newspaper. But even as this traitorous thought crossed his mind he clutched the Daily Mail protectively. So much for that idea.
Great going mate, instead of finding something new to do you’re feeling sorry for yourself again. Crap job. No friends. A love life so pathetic he'd been convinced he was homosexual. A notion corrected after a disastrous foray into a gay chat room with the moniker Backdoorbandit.
All his other attempts at ‘getting out there’ had failed miserably. Latino dance classes where he was always without a partner, dancing humiliatingly alone. Creative writing classes where the teacher had said he needed a life to be able to write about it. A life coach who had been avoiding his calls for a month. Speed dating where his 3 minute dates had all left after 30 seconds.
Loser. His 8 year old nephew had called him one the other day. The sight of the rotund Asian couple opposite him holding hands and giggling seemed to confirm this. Even that saddo’s found someone.
"This is your driver. Looks like we're being slowed down by the train ahead of us. Apologies for any delays to your journey today."
The train finally pulled into Finsbury Park. Some of the regulars got off and a new set of familiar faces got on. Familiar. There was that bloody word again.
"I'm afraid there's going to be some delay in continuing our journey due to a signal failure at Alexandra Palace."
Howard looked out the window without really seeing anything. What could he do today? The more chocolate he ate the more reckless he felt. Yes, today would be the day. No more whingeing mate, take your life in to your own hands. What could he do? Get his nipple pierced? But nobody would it – it was too cold to go about without his shirt on. A nose ring? No, his boss would have a fit and force him to take it off.
It was as these thought bubbles rose and burst in his mind that he saw her. She was standing on a lone platform, rubbing her hands and peering down the tracks as though willing her train to appear. She wasn’t beautiful. No, she was what his mother would call ‘attractive’ - not a great looker but a nice package.
Howard had been looking at her so intently he hadn’t noticed her staring back. She smiled in the way commuters occasionally smile at one another – a hesitant, rueful upturn of the lips. Before he knew it Howard was waving at her. Her smile became tinged with embarrassment and Howard realised he was brandishing his hand like the Queen Mother. He stopped smiled sheepishly and returned his attention to the Mars Bar.
He’d bit off the penultimate chunk of chocolate when it hit him. That’s it! No she’s it! She’ll be the new thing I do today. Well not do but – she could be … what of she's the one.
He looked out and incredulously realised that she was still staring at him. Howard choked on the chocolate. God don’t kill me now and ruin the plan. .
"Ladies and gentleman, this is your driver. Sorry, but it looks like we’ll be here a little longer. I’ll update you as and when I get more information.”
Howard’s hands were trembling. Should he go over and talk to her? He wondered when the next train was. He didn’t want to have to wait half an hour for the next one. What is wrong with you? The first and possible true love of your life is standing 20 yards away and you’re worried about train timings? Just be cool. BE COOL.
The fat Asian couple were staring at him, worried. “You ok mate?” Despite Howard’s inner turmoil, it still registered how ridiculous ‘mate’ sounded in a foreign accent.
Howard nodded and ran a hand through his hair. Ok don’t fuck this up now. Maybe you could hold up a sign? What if she’s short sighted? How about waving your phone at her? And what she telepathically transmits her number to you? Get off your arse and over to that platform.
Howard stood up determined. But a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness brought him tumbling back in to his seat. The last thing he wanted was to leave half digested porridge on her shoes. Be a man for God’s sake. Howard cringed as his father’s voice boomed in his head. He inhaled deeply and began counting very slowly till 10.
It was somewhere between 4 and 5 that Howard realised it was not nerves but the rhythmic motion of the train that was making him sway. Finsbury Park and Howard’s shot at true love were long gone and had been replaced by blurry images of the every day. Howard shook his head and made up his mind. I’ll buy The Guardian when I get to work.
Howard takes advice from a Mars Bar
'Platform 11A for the 09:06 train to Peterborough. Calling at Finsbury Park, Potter's Bar, Hatfield…'
Even though he had been taking the same train to work every day for the last 4 years, Howard waited till his station was announced before setting off towards 11A. He merged in to the mass of commuters – an ominous black cloud floating down the platform. People whose taste in music, movies and preferred sexual positions varied yet nearly all of them concurred black was the chosen colour when it came to winter coats.
Howard settled down in his seat. Newspaper neatly folded on his lap, waiting to be read. Mars Bar in his pocket waiting to be consumed. Howard himself, waiting for the regulars to board the train. There was Perennial Blue Suit – so typically English that it had been almost two years of travelling together before he nodded at Howard. There was Tour de France with his cycle and Learn Spanish in a week book. He had been reading it for a month now and hadn't got beyond 'How to ask for directions'. There was Funny Girl - Asian and always laughing uproariously garnering her disapproving looks from Perennial Blue Suit. There was Essex Emily lamenting on the phone to an assortment of girlfriends about ex-lovers, tyrannical bosses and Big Brother house evictees. Howard often marvelled about how much and how little he knew of these people he spent every morning with.
After the usual safety announcements the doors shut, locking out the usual latecomers wearing the usual expression of frustration and loss. You'd think they'd be used to it by now.
As the train pulled out of King's Cross Howard tugged out the Mars Bar and studied the familiar black packaging. Familiar. The word seemed to describe every aspect of his life. His job. The view from the window he sat by. His ring tone. They were all so disgustingly predictable. Self-loathing rose up in his throat like bile.
He turned the bar around in his hands. What was their new campaign? Do something new every day? I can do better stuff than that. But you aren’t. No, instead Howard wrote copy for insurance companies. Telling people what they were entitled to if they lost an arm or an eye. That their policy didn’t cover damage caused by ‘Acts of God.’
Howard deferred reading the paper to thinking over the proposition. Maybe I could buy a different newspaper. But even as this traitorous thought crossed his mind he clutched the Daily Mail protectively. So much for that idea.
Great going mate, instead of finding something new to do you’re feeling sorry for yourself again. Crap job. No friends. A love life so pathetic he'd been convinced he was homosexual. A notion corrected after a disastrous foray into a gay chat room with the moniker Backdoorbandit.
All his other attempts at ‘getting out there’ had failed miserably. Latino dance classes where he was always without a partner, dancing humiliatingly alone. Creative writing classes where the teacher had said he needed a life to be able to write about it. A life coach who had been avoiding his calls for a month. Speed dating where his 3 minute dates had all left after 30 seconds.
Loser. His 8 year old nephew had called him one the other day. The sight of the rotund Asian couple opposite him holding hands and giggling seemed to confirm this. Even that saddo’s found someone.
"This is your driver. Looks like we're being slowed down by the train ahead of us. Apologies for any delays to your journey today."
The train finally pulled into Finsbury Park. Some of the regulars got off and a new set of familiar faces got on. Familiar. There was that bloody word again.
"I'm afraid there's going to be some delay in continuing our journey due to a signal failure at Alexandra Palace."
Howard looked out the window without really seeing anything. What could he do today? The more chocolate he ate the more reckless he felt. Yes, today would be the day. No more whingeing mate, take your life in to your own hands. What could he do? Get his nipple pierced? But nobody would it – it was too cold to go about without his shirt on. A nose ring? No, his boss would have a fit and force him to take it off.
It was as these thought bubbles rose and burst in his mind that he saw her. She was standing on a lone platform, rubbing her hands and peering down the tracks as though willing her train to appear. She wasn’t beautiful. No, she was what his mother would call ‘attractive’ - not a great looker but a nice package.
Howard had been looking at her so intently he hadn’t noticed her staring back. She smiled in the way commuters occasionally smile at one another – a hesitant, rueful upturn of the lips. Before he knew it Howard was waving at her. Her smile became tinged with embarrassment and Howard realised he was brandishing his hand like the Queen Mother. He stopped smiled sheepishly and returned his attention to the Mars Bar.
He’d bit off the penultimate chunk of chocolate when it hit him. That’s it! No she’s it! She’ll be the new thing I do today. Well not do but – she could be … what of she's the one.
He looked out and incredulously realised that she was still staring at him. Howard choked on the chocolate. God don’t kill me now and ruin the plan. .
"Ladies and gentleman, this is your driver. Sorry, but it looks like we’ll be here a little longer. I’ll update you as and when I get more information.”
Howard’s hands were trembling. Should he go over and talk to her? He wondered when the next train was. He didn’t want to have to wait half an hour for the next one. What is wrong with you? The first and possible true love of your life is standing 20 yards away and you’re worried about train timings? Just be cool. BE COOL.
The fat Asian couple were staring at him, worried. “You ok mate?” Despite Howard’s inner turmoil, it still registered how ridiculous ‘mate’ sounded in a foreign accent.
Howard nodded and ran a hand through his hair. Ok don’t fuck this up now. Maybe you could hold up a sign? What if she’s short sighted? How about waving your phone at her? And what she telepathically transmits her number to you? Get off your arse and over to that platform.
Howard stood up determined. But a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness brought him tumbling back in to his seat. The last thing he wanted was to leave half digested porridge on her shoes. Be a man for God’s sake. Howard cringed as his father’s voice boomed in his head. He inhaled deeply and began counting very slowly till 10.
It was somewhere between 4 and 5 that Howard realised it was not nerves but the rhythmic motion of the train that was making him sway. Finsbury Park and Howard’s shot at true love were long gone and had been replaced by blurry images of the every day. Howard shook his head and made up his mind. I’ll buy The Guardian when I get to work.
Monday, March 13, 2006
journey home
on the train
delayed
delayed
delayed
the rim of the platform is edged
with people threatening to spill
over like unshed tears
i stand at the front
of this surging swelling mass
irritated at the triple delay
i see a man
push his way through
edging along the ring
he is close and
the urge to push him
over the yellow line
so intense
that I step back
in to the crowd
the train arrives
and he
gets my seat
and on the bus
white
brown
yellow
black
blue veins
purple bruises
green eyes
tonight the bus is
a living breathing
pantone card
delayed
delayed
delayed
the rim of the platform is edged
with people threatening to spill
over like unshed tears
i stand at the front
of this surging swelling mass
irritated at the triple delay
i see a man
push his way through
edging along the ring
he is close and
the urge to push him
over the yellow line
so intense
that I step back
in to the crowd
the train arrives
and he
gets my seat
and on the bus
white
brown
yellow
black
blue veins
purple bruises
green eyes
tonight the bus is
a living breathing
pantone card
First love
Though my blog’s title indicates a love for shoes it doesn’t mean that only footwear can get my heart racing and my palms sweating. No, no. Being the generous person I am I see nothing wrong in sharing the love. With books, bags and cashmere sweaters that I swear purr when stroked, (I guess I should add The Sherpa to the list – after all he does help finance some of my more extravagant obsessions, so) The Sherpa.
Many of these are recent paramours. Except the shoes. No, that love affair started when I was 10 and my father took me to buy a pair for my birthday. The finance minister of our home (my mother) had issued a budget of Rs. 250. After much lower lip quivering and around the little finger twisting I managed to procure myself a pair for Rs. 750. They were brown leather lace ups with ever so slightly pointy toes. How I loved them.
As usual I digress. This post isn’t about shoes but another first love of mine. As a child I would run around department stores, greedy hands reaching out and touching everything my chubby fingers could reach. Not toys or Barbie dolls - no, I was pursuing a far more superior path of consumerism. Stationery in all its glorious forms.
Pink Hello Kitty journals and Snoopy post-it notes. Donald Duck erasers and pencil boxes adorned with Pokemon’s ancestors. Pens that not only released ink but also a sickly sweet perfume. But my number 1 love was notebooks.
I adored the smell - clean and pure. The pages smooth and unsullied. The corners still sharp before time and being squashed in the back of my drawer bent them into submission. Some became diaries. Other repositories of ‘To do’ lists. Though for the life of me I can’t remember what I populated those lists with – Eat wheetabix for breakfast? Play with Flower Power Barbie (who was more garden fairy that mod chick). In others I wrote stories that were never finished and always featured a blonde girl called Jessica May. Some bore my first attempts at art. Stick figures dressed in triangular skirts, boxy jackets and - even at age 8 - insanely high heels.
I could never see a notebook through to the end though. After a few months I would lose interest. The pages were no longer new. The excitement would subside and be replaced by loathsome familiarity. And like a fickle teenager I would transfer my affections to a new flavour of the month without little thought for the feelings of my former beau. In a year I had amassed a small pile of half used diaries and pads. Tainted with my scribbles and of no use to any one else.
In later years this obsession proved troublesome. When I started working, the office supply cupboard proved too hard to resist. Rows of shiny notebooks, envelopes, glue sticks and jars of candy coloured paper clips that were waiting for me to dip my hand in and satisfy the greedy 8 year old that still lurked inside. The expensive roller ball pens, the pencils sharpened to perfection – even the clear plastic folders weren’t safe from me. A few months in to my first job and admin began insisting that all staff showed proof that they needed new stationery.
While many of my youthful fancies have come and gone (like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) my crush on notebooks has developed in to a far more mature affair. The mouthless Japanese cat has been replaced by understated black moleskine and the leaking, pens held together by cello tape have been discarded for writing instruments that don’t turn by skin Quink blue.
But every now and then the 8 year inside manifests. In perfumed erasers, ventricular rulers and pens that leave a shiny, wet trail of glittery pink words.
Ps. For those of you that didn't notice, this post was just an excuse for me to tell all of you that I have a moleskine notebook and link to the site. I may never write like Hemingway but at least I have the notebook. :P
Friday, March 10, 2006
Seven sans Brad and Morgan
OK. I’ve been tagged. This is the last tag I am going to do. Please note that from today this blog is a tag free zone. Those that continue to tag me will be hunted down and forced to watch the movies on my ‘7 good movies’ list on loop for a year. Thank you.
Seven things to do before I die
· Walk the Inca trail
· Use my breasts to promote world peace
· Actually mean it when I say My other shoes are Manolos
· Win the lottery
· Write the book of the century
· Write, direct and produce a movie about my life (I‘m thinking Jennifer
Aniston plays me)
· Find out who started this whole tag thing and kill them
Seven things I can't do:
· Eat meat
· Not wave my hands about manically when I speak
· Keep quiet for more than 5 minutes
· Find another 4 things I can’t do. I'm a pretty open to new things that way.
Seven things that attract me to Europe (Who the hell came up with these questions)
· Cheese
· Old buildings
· Art I don’t understand but can pretend to (“wonderful use of space and light!”)
· European men I can admire from afar (get too close and you realise it’s true – they do have problems with bathing every day)
· Cheese
· Cheese
· Did I say cheese?
Seven excellent books:
Please refer here
Seven good movies:
· Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure
· Dude where’s my car?
· American Pie
· American Pie II
· American Wedding
· Koodi Vazhnthaal Kodi Nanmai (Live together for much goodness)
· Untitled movie about my life starring Jennifer Aniston
Seven things to do before I die
· Walk the Inca trail
· Use my breasts to promote world peace
· Actually mean it when I say My other shoes are Manolos
· Win the lottery
· Write the book of the century
· Write, direct and produce a movie about my life (I‘m thinking Jennifer
Aniston plays me)
· Find out who started this whole tag thing and kill them
Seven things I can't do:
· Eat meat
· Not wave my hands about manically when I speak
· Keep quiet for more than 5 minutes
· Find another 4 things I can’t do. I'm a pretty open to new things that way.
Seven things that attract me to Europe (Who the hell came up with these questions)
· Cheese
· Old buildings
· Art I don’t understand but can pretend to (“wonderful use of space and light!”)
· European men I can admire from afar (get too close and you realise it’s true – they do have problems with bathing every day)
· Cheese
· Cheese
· Did I say cheese?
Seven excellent books:
Please refer here
Seven good movies:
· Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure
· Dude where’s my car?
· American Pie
· American Pie II
· American Wedding
· Koodi Vazhnthaal Kodi Nanmai (Live together for much goodness)
· Untitled movie about my life starring Jennifer Aniston
Last week!
Hi everyone. Well only one more week of the class to go and here's the last assignment for those of you that would like to give it a whirl!
WRITE A STORY BASED ON THE PICK 'N' MIX WORDS YOU CHOSE.
THE STORY SHOULD BE WRITTEN ENTIRELY FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF ONE CHARACTER WHO IS NOT YOUR GENDER. (NB THIS CAN BE VIA THE FIRST PERSON 'I' OR THIRD PERSON 'S/HE' -- BUT STICK TO THAT PERSPECTIVE.)
Any length is OK. I know the working titles sound a bit pulpy, but please don't let this distract you from your distinctive voice and style. The point is to use your chosen THEME + SETTING as strong guiding principles throughout your story. (The real title can come later.)
horror/zoo
grief/garden
shock/temple
bliss/monument
new beginnings / mosque
metamorphosis/wilderness
disgrace / cellar
lust/church
anger /hospital
celebration / prison
corruption / brothel
revenge / farm
outrage / rubbish dump
addiction/museum
regret / laboratory
poverty/ship
I got "new love/railway station"
Enjoy!
Ps. That's a picture of the first flowers of spring that have bloomed outside my office. Please note the 'Indian' restaurant in the background. The brick building next to it is where I work!
Monday, March 06, 2006
My flashback
This one’s for Grandma
Surya shivered as the sleety wind did its best to find chinks in her winter armour. She stamped her feet, trying to dispel the numbing cold and her mounting impatience in one go. The 114 finally came trundling down the road. It groaned to a halt, spluttering out smoke and passengers. Shuddering all the while as though it too felt the cold.
The driver grunted as she flashed her pass at him. The bus lurched forward and she stumbled into the first available seat. Her neighbour’s face was obscured by the faux fur collar of her coat, but the faint smell of turmeric and the bindhied forehead gave her away. Bulging plastic bags were clasped to her chest like well fed pups. Out of the corner of her eye, Surya saw chipped maroon talons pull out a tube. ‘Fair Always’ it proclaimed. The woman squeezed the tube releasing a sluggish yellow river that flowed through the crisscrossing tributaries of her fate. Camphor, saffron and a 9-year old girl’s fear burst out.
'Surya! Surya! Wake up. Lazy girl.' The covers had been whipped off before she could protest. Surya opened her eyes and looked sullenly in to the murky, cataract ridden eyes of her Paati.
'Who are you scowling at, hmm? ' Surya knew better than to reply and silently rolled up her bedding and made her way to the outhouse. Paati had hobbled after her as though to make sure she didn't fall asleep on the way.
As Surya went about her morning ablutions, Thangam the maid and Paati began a daily ritual of their own.
'Look how dark she is' Paati muttered – still unable to digest the fact that her son
(who was often mistaken for a fair Punjabi mind you) had produced such a dark offspring. And a girl at that.
'Look how she washes her face – how will the darkness go if she's so gentle? She needs to scrub harder' Thangam demonstrated with the coconut husk she was cleaning the vessels with.
The statement galvanised Paati in to action. Her self-diagnosed arthritis was forgotten as she leapt across the courtyard and grabbed hold of Surya's neck, mimicking Thangam's vigorous wrist action on her tender skin.
The bus stopped. Ms. Fair Always stared at Surya and then transferred her attentions to the smug, middleclass cars around them.
'Why don't you use the ointment I got from Neela’s?’ Paati had demanded ' Her daughter’s become white as milk.'
'Surya is fine. She doesn't need anything.' Her daughter-in-law retorted.
'Why would you want to change her –she's taken after you. You know, people think
Ravi is a-'
'I know, I know! A Punjabi. Maybe she's not Ravi's daughter after all.’
'Look at what she says! Shameless! When Ravi comes home I'll- what are you laughing at? Insolent girl.’
The memory of her grandmother’s impotent fury made Surya smile.
Mother and father were going out of town and Surya had begged to be taken along. She didn't want to be left alone with Paati. Mother had wiped away her tears and father had ruffled her hair. And then they left.
'Enough loitering at the gate. They've gone.' Paati had crowed.
Surya looked down the empty road and reluctantly went back inside.
'I want hot water to bathe Paati' she murmured.
'Oh ho! Did you hear that Thangam? Maharani wants hot water.'
Thangam sniggered in to her coffee.
'Shut up Thangam! Blackie.' Surya kicked an upturned bucket and received a smart slap from Paati in return.
'Who are you calling blackie? Huh? Dark as a coffee nut and so arrogant. Go!'
It was December, and the air was gently laced with cold. The idea of a hot bath was too good to resist. So she waited till Paati had adjusted her sobre, widow’s nine-yard sari and left for the temple. Cultivating her limp along the way for her audience of sympathetic cronies.
Thangam was washing clothes out back when Surya snuck in to the kitchen. A large aluminium vessel trembled on the stove – spitting out angry drops of boiling water every now and then. Mother had told her to keep away from fire but she shouldn’t have left her with Paati like this. Surya turned the knob as she had seen Mother do and stood on her tiptoes. She grasped the edges of the vessel with an old kitchen towel and had brought it down half way when-
'Thangam! Thangam! I forgot my coin purse. It’s in the kitchen.'
The 114 slowed down as it approached Surya’s stop.
The doctor had said she was lucky she hadn't been blinded. Mother had sobbed. Father had looked helpless. Only Paati had words.
'No hope now. Dark and disfigured. Nothing can be done.'
Surya turned to her neighbour.
'Excuse me. Can I try some of that cream?'
Update
Slightly modified version. Only slightly.
Surya shivered as the sleety wind did its best to find chinks in her winter armour. She stamped her feet, trying to dispel the numbing cold and her mounting impatience in one go. The 114 finally came trundling down the road. It groaned to a halt, spluttering out smoke and passengers. Shuddering all the while as though it too felt the cold.
The driver grunted as she flashed her pass at him. The bus lurched forward and she stumbled into the first available seat. Her neighbour’s face was obscured by the faux fur collar of her coat, but the faint smell of turmeric and the bindhied forehead gave her away. Bulging plastic bags were clasped to her chest like well fed pups. Out of the corner of her eye, Surya saw chipped maroon talons pull out a tube. ‘Fair Always’ it proclaimed. The woman squeezed the tube releasing a sluggish yellow river that flowed through the crisscrossing tributaries of her fate. Camphor, saffron and a 9-year old girl’s fear burst out.
'Surya! Surya! Wake up. Lazy girl.' The covers had been whipped off before she could protest. Surya opened her eyes and looked sullenly in to the murky, cataract ridden eyes of her Paati.
'Who are you scowling at, hmm? ' Surya knew better than to reply and silently rolled up her bedding and made her way to the outhouse. Paati had hobbled after her as though to make sure she didn't fall asleep on the way.
As Surya went about her morning ablutions, Thangam the maid and Paati began a daily ritual of their own.
'Look how dark she is' Paati muttered – still unable to digest the fact that her son
(who was often mistaken for a fair Punjabi mind you) had produced such a dark offspring. And a girl at that.
'Look how she washes her face – how will the darkness go if she's so gentle? She needs to scrub harder' Thangam demonstrated with the coconut husk she was cleaning the vessels with.
The statement galvanised Paati in to action. Her self-diagnosed arthritis was forgotten as she leapt across the courtyard and grabbed hold of Surya's neck, mimicking Thangam's vigorous wrist action on her tender skin.
The bus stopped. Ms. Fair Always stared at Surya and then transferred her attentions to the smug, middleclass cars around them.
'Why don't you use the ointment I got from Neela’s?’ Paati had demanded ' Her daughter’s become white as milk.'
'Surya is fine. She doesn't need anything.' Her daughter-in-law retorted.
'Why would you want to change her –she's taken after you. You know, people think
Ravi is a-'
'I know, I know! A Punjabi. Maybe she's not Ravi's daughter after all.’
'Look at what she says! Shameless! When Ravi comes home I'll- what are you laughing at? Insolent girl.’
The memory of her grandmother’s impotent fury made Surya smile.
Mother and father were going out of town and Surya had begged to be taken along. She didn't want to be left alone with Paati. Mother had wiped away her tears and father had ruffled her hair. And then they left.
'Enough loitering at the gate. They've gone.' Paati had crowed.
Surya looked down the empty road and reluctantly went back inside.
'I want hot water to bathe Paati' she murmured.
'Oh ho! Did you hear that Thangam? Maharani wants hot water.'
Thangam sniggered in to her coffee.
'Shut up Thangam! Blackie.' Surya kicked an upturned bucket and received a smart slap from Paati in return.
'Who are you calling blackie? Huh? Dark as a coffee nut and so arrogant. Go!'
It was December, and the air was gently laced with cold. The idea of a hot bath was too good to resist. So she waited till Paati had adjusted her sobre, widow’s nine-yard sari and left for the temple. Cultivating her limp along the way for her audience of sympathetic cronies.
Thangam was washing clothes out back when Surya snuck in to the kitchen. A large aluminium vessel trembled on the stove – spitting out angry drops of boiling water every now and then. Mother had told her to keep away from fire but she shouldn’t have left her with Paati like this. Surya turned the knob as she had seen Mother do and stood on her tiptoes. She grasped the edges of the vessel with an old kitchen towel and had brought it down half way when-
'Thangam! Thangam! I forgot my coin purse. It’s in the kitchen.'
The 114 slowed down as it approached Surya’s stop.
The doctor had said she was lucky she hadn't been blinded. Mother had sobbed. Father had looked helpless. Only Paati had words.
'No hope now. Dark and disfigured. Nothing can be done.'
Surya turned to her neighbour.
'Excuse me. Can I try some of that cream?'
Update
Slightly modified version. Only slightly.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Blog-a-thon for Blank Noise Project
Image courtesy - Blank Noise Project
Blank Noise Project is hosting a Blog-a-thon on the issue of street harassment. If you’d like to participate, send an email to blurtblanknoise@gmail.com before the 6th of March.
Untold
Age 10 - PTC bus to tutions. A hand up the back of my skirt.
Age 13 - On the scooter with Appa on the way back from the library. Two boys pinch me as they speed by on their bikes
Age 15 - Waiting for my mother to pick me up after school."How much for an hour?"
Age 18 - On my Scooter at a signal. Car pulls up next to me, window rolls down and a man old enough to be my grandfather mouths obscenities at me.
Age 22 - Walking down the road minding my own business. Unknown hands reach out and brush against my crotch.
Age 25 - On a near empty carriage on the tube man comes and sits next to me. He smiles proud of the fact that he's wearing no underwear and his genitals are straining against his thin trousers.
Worse things have happened to others. But what binds us is our silence.
Homework!
As many of you know I've been taking a short creative writing course that will be coming to an end in another 2 weeks. A lot of people have found the assignments interesting and some have even been taking them up on their own blogs.
So I thought I would post this week's assingment now instead of with the finished piece. That way those of you interested can take a crack at it too!
So students this week, we're writing a Flashback!
The assignment
What is a flashback? It's an illumination, it's in the past, and it's often quick as a...
A flashback is not an ornamental device or long digression. It must be relevant. It's usually a revelation which informs the present (or near past) character-story. It should deepen our understanding, add a meaningful new layer of insight, reveal aspects of the character's story which would otherwise be hidden. A flashback is not a rambling reminiscence or a guided tour down memory lane. It's usually involuntary, subconscious, provoked. As such, it can reveal 'secrets' to the reader -- insights which help to unmask even the most guarded or controlled characters.
Flashbacks are triggered clearly for the reader by a change in style, a key word, a striking image, an evocative sensation... or a direct reference to the time difference (eg "When he was 12...", "Years before..." etc). When you signal the change in time frame, you need to be in control of your tenses. You also need to be very clear about when you come back out of that deeper past.
Sometimes a weighty flashback works better if it is broken into separate chunks. Each stage can deliver a new insight. Whatever happens, we shouldn't lose sight of the main story. And we shouldn't lose our sense of narrative momentum. The central character needs to remain located in time and space. If need be, remind us that (eg) s/he is driving a car, eating an icecream or late for a wedding.
Avoid using clichés like "Memories came flooding back" -- unless you're playing with the technique in a self-conscious manner -- such phrases are the equivalent of cinema's calendar pages blowing away or misty swirls accompanied by harp music!
It's much easier to write from the present tense (eg "X is doing something" or "X does something") and go into the past from there.
So this week's exercise is harder than that! But it's also likely to be more useful.
EXERCISE
-Write a story set in the perfect or imperfect past tense. (eg "X did something" or "X was doing something")
-Keep it to one central character's perspective only.
-S/he has a flashback -- usually in the pluperfect past tense (eg "X had done this") or a repeated continuous memory (eg "X used to do this" or "X would do this every Sunday...")
-The flashback continues (you can drop the pluperfect after a while, or else your story becomes riddled with the word "had")
-The story comes back to the im/perfect past.
If you want to save time, make use of an existing character or story you've already started, THEN DELVE!
PS. This is my 100th post! Thanks for still reading.
So I thought I would post this week's assingment now instead of with the finished piece. That way those of you interested can take a crack at it too!
So students this week, we're writing a Flashback!
The assignment
What is a flashback? It's an illumination, it's in the past, and it's often quick as a...
A flashback is not an ornamental device or long digression. It must be relevant. It's usually a revelation which informs the present (or near past) character-story. It should deepen our understanding, add a meaningful new layer of insight, reveal aspects of the character's story which would otherwise be hidden. A flashback is not a rambling reminiscence or a guided tour down memory lane. It's usually involuntary, subconscious, provoked. As such, it can reveal 'secrets' to the reader -- insights which help to unmask even the most guarded or controlled characters.
Flashbacks are triggered clearly for the reader by a change in style, a key word, a striking image, an evocative sensation... or a direct reference to the time difference (eg "When he was 12...", "Years before..." etc). When you signal the change in time frame, you need to be in control of your tenses. You also need to be very clear about when you come back out of that deeper past.
Sometimes a weighty flashback works better if it is broken into separate chunks. Each stage can deliver a new insight. Whatever happens, we shouldn't lose sight of the main story. And we shouldn't lose our sense of narrative momentum. The central character needs to remain located in time and space. If need be, remind us that (eg) s/he is driving a car, eating an icecream or late for a wedding.
Avoid using clichés like "Memories came flooding back" -- unless you're playing with the technique in a self-conscious manner -- such phrases are the equivalent of cinema's calendar pages blowing away or misty swirls accompanied by harp music!
It's much easier to write from the present tense (eg "X is doing something" or "X does something") and go into the past from there.
So this week's exercise is harder than that! But it's also likely to be more useful.
EXERCISE
-Write a story set in the perfect or imperfect past tense. (eg "X did something" or "X was doing something")
-Keep it to one central character's perspective only.
-S/he has a flashback -- usually in the pluperfect past tense (eg "X had done this") or a repeated continuous memory (eg "X used to do this" or "X would do this every Sunday...")
-The flashback continues (you can drop the pluperfect after a while, or else your story becomes riddled with the word "had")
-The story comes back to the im/perfect past.
If you want to save time, make use of an existing character or story you've already started, THEN DELVE!
PS. This is my 100th post! Thanks for still reading.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Miniatures
His birth will herald a new beginning. Or so the local Pundit said.
A century monopolised by female offspring ends. The village celebrates. Fireworks swallow his cries and a distant rumbling. Exhaustion claims the jubilant but not him. Brooding purples and an invisible assassin seep into the morning sky. His mother smiles one last time ‘He’s stopped crying.’ The slate is wiped clean.
I wish I could tell you about myself but I’m not sure who I am.
Second born. Female. Indian. London via Thuvakudi-Madras-Hong Kong-London-Abu Dhabi-Madras-Bombay. Failed engineer. Cynical copywriter. Wife. “Chatter box” “Must try harder” “The family’s best daughter-in-law”. Geography, society, family and friends have already decided who I am. I haven’t. 50 words for an autobiography only seems inadequate when you know who you are.
THE ASSIGNMENT
It is your turn to be a miniaturist - to write your own shortest of short stories...
Your mini-saga must be exactly 50 words long. (Hyphenated words can be counted as one word or two, at your discretion.) In addition it must carry a title of no more than 15 words, which will, ideally, set the scene and illuminate or counterpoint the text.
Most important, your story must have a beginning, a middle and an end. Something must happen, preferably something which will keep the reader thinking. Fifty dazzlingly deployed words of description or reflection will not do.
1 Evolution, Einstein, East Enders, feminism, terrorism, television, Romeo and Juliet, Bill and Ben, Fish and Chips... Write a mini-saga ABOUT ANYTHING YOU LIKE.
2 Write another mini-saga about your life -- that is, your autobiography. (Don't feel obliged to reveal deep dark secrets!)
UPDATE
Here's another fiction one I did for fun.
Sorry to be such a bother but …
“A triumphant debut” Rushdie. Booker and Whitbread pop into conversations like neighbours that need sugar. People want to know her opinion. On Baghdad, bird flu and black as the new black. She looks at the blank page that stands in the way, picks up her pen and begins to write.
A century monopolised by female offspring ends. The village celebrates. Fireworks swallow his cries and a distant rumbling. Exhaustion claims the jubilant but not him. Brooding purples and an invisible assassin seep into the morning sky. His mother smiles one last time ‘He’s stopped crying.’ The slate is wiped clean.
I wish I could tell you about myself but I’m not sure who I am.
Second born. Female. Indian. London via Thuvakudi-Madras-Hong Kong-London-Abu Dhabi-Madras-Bombay. Failed engineer. Cynical copywriter. Wife. “Chatter box” “Must try harder” “The family’s best daughter-in-law”. Geography, society, family and friends have already decided who I am. I haven’t. 50 words for an autobiography only seems inadequate when you know who you are.
THE ASSIGNMENT
It is your turn to be a miniaturist - to write your own shortest of short stories...
Your mini-saga must be exactly 50 words long. (Hyphenated words can be counted as one word or two, at your discretion.) In addition it must carry a title of no more than 15 words, which will, ideally, set the scene and illuminate or counterpoint the text.
Most important, your story must have a beginning, a middle and an end. Something must happen, preferably something which will keep the reader thinking. Fifty dazzlingly deployed words of description or reflection will not do.
1 Evolution, Einstein, East Enders, feminism, terrorism, television, Romeo and Juliet, Bill and Ben, Fish and Chips... Write a mini-saga ABOUT ANYTHING YOU LIKE.
2 Write another mini-saga about your life -- that is, your autobiography. (Don't feel obliged to reveal deep dark secrets!)
UPDATE
Here's another fiction one I did for fun.
Sorry to be such a bother but …
“A triumphant debut” Rushdie. Booker and Whitbread pop into conversations like neighbours that need sugar. People want to know her opinion. On Baghdad, bird flu and black as the new black. She looks at the blank page that stands in the way, picks up her pen and begins to write.
A Long, long way
No this isn’t a book review of my current read. I’m terrible at book and film reviews. But you already knew that didn’t you? Oh, you didn’t? Well read this. Now you do.
No, no. This is about something that takes up a good three hours of my day. Every day. I wish I could say that deep contemplation, meditation and tantric sex are what take up one eight of my daily schedule, but the truth is that that time is sacredly allotted to commuting to work and back.
Now much of my morning commute is a haze because I’m usually not fully awake until my third cup of coffee. It’s the journey home that I am painfully awake for. All one and half hours of it.
The journey begins with the brief walk from office to station, which includes a much dreaded scurry past the local Indian (read Bangladeshi) takeaway. The proprietor and waiters of the establishment are quite convinced that I am a Bangladeshi myself and often stopped and offered me a job bussing tables. A pleasurable task no doubt as it would afford me the chance to study the large painting that adorns the far wall at the back. So far I have recognised Amitabh Bachchan and Ganhdi seated on a stage of some sort surrounded by bolsters and hookahs. Bussing tables would let me confirm if it's Mallika Sherawat seated to the left. I hear the tips aren’t too mean either.
Having dodged the balti boys as I affectionately call them I arrive at the station. Now my train is always late. Always. Every day. Without fail. Like clockwork really. I like to look at the trees philosophically and ponder on the meaning of life at this time. Usually because the other desi girls on the platform avoid my friendly glances. I think the odour of the balti boy’s chicken tikka masala clinging to my coat puts them off.
Now though my train is meant to only make 3 stops, like a dog that wants to sniff every tree it passes my train likes to pause at all stations but without peeing. But I don’t mind. I have my I-pod, a book, what’s left of the morning paper, my imaginary friends George and Brad and if I’m feeling particularly pretentious a little notebook I like to whip out and pretend to write the next Booker in. (But there is always someone more pretentious than me. Honest. Like the girl who whipped out algebra course material in French yesterday 2 minutes before the train terminated at King’s Cross. You win I said and muttered ‘Bitch’ to George.)
If you’re all thinking “Finally the train has stopped and this tortuous post is over”. HA and double HA! That’s just the beginning my lovelies. From platform 9A I make my way to the tube. This is something like a cat trying to cross the Serengeti during the annual wildebeest migration. Sometimes I think carrying a backpack over my head and running fast might help. Sometimes I think that might get me shot at.
Right. So now I’m on the Northbound train chugging along home. Ignoring the man talking to himself and try to cop and eye at the cover of Heat. Making moral judgements on sweet teenage girls dressed in the latest pimp ‘n’ whore gear. Wondering why… Ah! My station’s arrived. From the station to the bus stop I keep my head down. This is to avoid getting jeered at and bullied by children half my age and size. I can see the disbelief in your eyes. She’s scared of children? Well you’d be scared of 12 year olds too if they all called each other bitch, wanker, fuckhead, slag and slapper. I’m sure they all come from broken homes and that the drug, alcohol and excessive underage sex makes them feel more loved and accepted. But seeing as I don’t want to be part of their happy slapping therapy I walk fast.
On my bus. Heading home. My stop arrives. I’m walking fast and looking confident so that rapists/murders and shoe thieves know that they can’t mess with me. At the front door to my building. Home is but locked door away. But first I need to check if I have any post. So I stand in the cold groping in the bottomless pit that is my bag for the keys. A neighbour comes in after me opens his post box, fishes out his mail and even opens the front door. And I’m still looking. He’s politely holding the door open for me. My keys! Yes! I open the post box with great anticipation hoping for letters from long lost friends and secret admirers. Nothing. But hey I did get three invitations from Don Pepe’s Pizza Parlour. That has to count for something. I meekly thank my neighbour who now resembles a pissed off snowman and skulk up to my front door.
I’m home. Finally. I told you it was a long, long way.
No, no. This is about something that takes up a good three hours of my day. Every day. I wish I could say that deep contemplation, meditation and tantric sex are what take up one eight of my daily schedule, but the truth is that that time is sacredly allotted to commuting to work and back.
Now much of my morning commute is a haze because I’m usually not fully awake until my third cup of coffee. It’s the journey home that I am painfully awake for. All one and half hours of it.
The journey begins with the brief walk from office to station, which includes a much dreaded scurry past the local Indian (read Bangladeshi) takeaway. The proprietor and waiters of the establishment are quite convinced that I am a Bangladeshi myself and often stopped and offered me a job bussing tables. A pleasurable task no doubt as it would afford me the chance to study the large painting that adorns the far wall at the back. So far I have recognised Amitabh Bachchan and Ganhdi seated on a stage of some sort surrounded by bolsters and hookahs. Bussing tables would let me confirm if it's Mallika Sherawat seated to the left. I hear the tips aren’t too mean either.
Having dodged the balti boys as I affectionately call them I arrive at the station. Now my train is always late. Always. Every day. Without fail. Like clockwork really. I like to look at the trees philosophically and ponder on the meaning of life at this time. Usually because the other desi girls on the platform avoid my friendly glances. I think the odour of the balti boy’s chicken tikka masala clinging to my coat puts them off.
Now though my train is meant to only make 3 stops, like a dog that wants to sniff every tree it passes my train likes to pause at all stations but without peeing. But I don’t mind. I have my I-pod, a book, what’s left of the morning paper, my imaginary friends George and Brad and if I’m feeling particularly pretentious a little notebook I like to whip out and pretend to write the next Booker in. (But there is always someone more pretentious than me. Honest. Like the girl who whipped out algebra course material in French yesterday 2 minutes before the train terminated at King’s Cross. You win I said and muttered ‘Bitch’ to George.)
If you’re all thinking “Finally the train has stopped and this tortuous post is over”. HA and double HA! That’s just the beginning my lovelies. From platform 9A I make my way to the tube. This is something like a cat trying to cross the Serengeti during the annual wildebeest migration. Sometimes I think carrying a backpack over my head and running fast might help. Sometimes I think that might get me shot at.
Right. So now I’m on the Northbound train chugging along home. Ignoring the man talking to himself and try to cop and eye at the cover of Heat. Making moral judgements on sweet teenage girls dressed in the latest pimp ‘n’ whore gear. Wondering why… Ah! My station’s arrived. From the station to the bus stop I keep my head down. This is to avoid getting jeered at and bullied by children half my age and size. I can see the disbelief in your eyes. She’s scared of children? Well you’d be scared of 12 year olds too if they all called each other bitch, wanker, fuckhead, slag and slapper. I’m sure they all come from broken homes and that the drug, alcohol and excessive underage sex makes them feel more loved and accepted. But seeing as I don’t want to be part of their happy slapping therapy I walk fast.
On my bus. Heading home. My stop arrives. I’m walking fast and looking confident so that rapists/murders and shoe thieves know that they can’t mess with me. At the front door to my building. Home is but locked door away. But first I need to check if I have any post. So I stand in the cold groping in the bottomless pit that is my bag for the keys. A neighbour comes in after me opens his post box, fishes out his mail and even opens the front door. And I’m still looking. He’s politely holding the door open for me. My keys! Yes! I open the post box with great anticipation hoping for letters from long lost friends and secret admirers. Nothing. But hey I did get three invitations from Don Pepe’s Pizza Parlour. That has to count for something. I meekly thank my neighbour who now resembles a pissed off snowman and skulk up to my front door.
I’m home. Finally. I told you it was a long, long way.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Next stop: Booksville
The subject of a recent ‘tag’ exercise got me observing the reading habits of my co-commuters on the tube (now you know where I got those high falutin book titles on my tag from.) A feat I hope my readers appreciate, as many of my side-long, sneaky glances were construed to be of the amorous kind by a number of men. (No women sadly. After receiving a love letter from a female classmate at the age of 11 I stopped possessing any lesbian qualities whatsoever.) But I digress. Back to tomes on the tube.
There are the usual suspects. Silly sods still reading The DaVinci Code and Harry Potter and The Philosophers Stone. Try not to smirk or look pityingly at them as you may get your foot trod on ‘accidentally’ as they alight from the train. Or worse they may make it know silently but aromatically that they ate beans for their last meal.
Many devour what is known as chick-lit (not to be confused with chiclets. Though both possess an annoying sweet flavour). The trend in this genre was once about finding Mr. Right. But since readers have gone on to find soul mates – but not-sharing the washing up-mates, the new wave of books has gone on to depict domestic bliss. “The Undomestic Goddess” (Don’t do the washing up – dirt and germs are so much sexier!) “I had a baby and got a lobotomy for free”. “And God created the Au Pair.”
“I had a baby but didn’t become a Yummy Mummy.” “The Au Pair got my husband and money and all I got was the baby.” All wonderful reads.
Late night trains are ideal for spotting those with ‘issues’. But beware, some have mineral deficiencies and candy related mental traumas which may cause them to bear their teeth at you should you try and sit next to them. “Chicken Soup for the Soul” “Lentil Soup for the liver” “The 7 steps to being successful that you already knew but never bothered to write a book about” are most popular. Yesterday I secretly observed a lady reading (and thoroughly enjoying) “Why Men Love Bitches”. Noting her purple cord trousers and yellow windcheater I was moved to suggest ‘What not to Wear’ as more suitable but remembered the mineral deficiency issue and wisely kept quiet.
Sound characterises the erotica/romance reader. No need to look at the cover of the book my friends. Keep you ears wide open for sighs, heavy breathing and subtle moans. Such readers are also characterising by strenuous toe flexing and relaxation (not to be confused with toe calisthenics) and profuse sweating - a dead give away given current weather conditions.
I must admit that all of last week my choice of reading material garnered me more than one worried look. Perhaps I should have kept “American Psycho” for reading at home.
There are the usual suspects. Silly sods still reading The DaVinci Code and Harry Potter and The Philosophers Stone. Try not to smirk or look pityingly at them as you may get your foot trod on ‘accidentally’ as they alight from the train. Or worse they may make it know silently but aromatically that they ate beans for their last meal.
Many devour what is known as chick-lit (not to be confused with chiclets. Though both possess an annoying sweet flavour). The trend in this genre was once about finding Mr. Right. But since readers have gone on to find soul mates – but not-sharing the washing up-mates, the new wave of books has gone on to depict domestic bliss. “The Undomestic Goddess” (Don’t do the washing up – dirt and germs are so much sexier!) “I had a baby and got a lobotomy for free”. “And God created the Au Pair.”
“I had a baby but didn’t become a Yummy Mummy.” “The Au Pair got my husband and money and all I got was the baby.” All wonderful reads.
Late night trains are ideal for spotting those with ‘issues’. But beware, some have mineral deficiencies and candy related mental traumas which may cause them to bear their teeth at you should you try and sit next to them. “Chicken Soup for the Soul” “Lentil Soup for the liver” “The 7 steps to being successful that you already knew but never bothered to write a book about” are most popular. Yesterday I secretly observed a lady reading (and thoroughly enjoying) “Why Men Love Bitches”. Noting her purple cord trousers and yellow windcheater I was moved to suggest ‘What not to Wear’ as more suitable but remembered the mineral deficiency issue and wisely kept quiet.
Sound characterises the erotica/romance reader. No need to look at the cover of the book my friends. Keep you ears wide open for sighs, heavy breathing and subtle moans. Such readers are also characterising by strenuous toe flexing and relaxation (not to be confused with toe calisthenics) and profuse sweating - a dead give away given current weather conditions.
I must admit that all of last week my choice of reading material garnered me more than one worried look. Perhaps I should have kept “American Psycho” for reading at home.
Tag
I hated playing tag in school. Alas I can not avoid it in the blogosphere. Promises of fondue and some 'buttering up' have forced me in to playing.
So here is my book tag 30in2005 and Mumbaigirl.
1. What is the total number of books you've owned?
About 300.
2. What are the last books you bought?
From The Oxfam Bookstore at Heretfordhsire and Welywn Garden City
Vikram Seth – Two Lives
American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis
The Complete Book of Vegetarian Cooking
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
The Penguin Book of International Women's Stories - Edited by Kate Figgs
3. What is the last book you've read?
American Psycho- Bret Easton Ellis
Scary, funny, gory.
4. What are you currently reading?
Eragorn - Christopher Paollini
Book 2 in the story of a boy, his dragon, elves, dwarves and great fun.
A long, long way – Sebastien Barry
World War I through the eyes of a young Irish soldier.
Back issues of Smoke a London Peculiar
An indie magazine full of stories, poetry and art inspired by London.
5. What are the 5 books that have meant a lot to you or that you particularly enjoyed?
Mr Men Series – Roger Hargreaves
Where would I be without Mr. Jelly and Little Miss. Naughty?
Revolting Rhymes – Roald Dahl. Illustrations Quentin Blake
Would recite these poems to my parent’s friends when they came round for dinner. I never knew if their red faces were because of the ‘rude bits’ or too much whisky.
Are you there God it’s me Margaret – Judy Blume
Perfectly captures growing pains. Ah how we all yearned to get our periods as young 10 year old girls . If only we knew.
Little Women - Louisa M. Alcott
First book that made me cry.
Wuthering Heights – Bronte
The prototype for every Mills&Boon hero ever created. Sadly the dark, conniving heroine didn’t catch on.
100 Hundred Years of Solitude - Marquez
The buterflies!
Hey whipple squeeze this – Luke Sullivan
Read as a young trainee living in the bubble world of advertising.
No Logo – Naomi Klein
Burst aforementioned bubble.
6) What book(s) would you wish to buy next?
Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts
The Entire Calvin & Hobbes Series
Delta of Venus – Anais Nin.
7. What book(s) caught your attention but you never had a chance to read?
Gulag Archipelago - Aleksandr Isaevich Solzhenitsyn
Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett
A Clockwork Orange - Anothony burgess
8. What book(s) that you've owned for so long but never read?Grapes of wrath - Steinbeck
Catch 22 – Joseph Heller
Roots – Alex Haley
The Tin Drum - Gunter Grass
Mrs. Dalloway - Virginia Woolf
9. Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?
sorry for doing this to you guys. Please feel free not to comply :)
Falstaff - have you read his blog?
Sonia Faleiro - have you read her blog?
Kaaju Katli - have you read her blog?
So here is my book tag 30in2005 and Mumbaigirl.
1. What is the total number of books you've owned?
About 300.
2. What are the last books you bought?
From The Oxfam Bookstore at Heretfordhsire and Welywn Garden City
Vikram Seth – Two Lives
American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis
The Complete Book of Vegetarian Cooking
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
The Penguin Book of International Women's Stories - Edited by Kate Figgs
3. What is the last book you've read?
American Psycho- Bret Easton Ellis
Scary, funny, gory.
4. What are you currently reading?
Eragorn - Christopher Paollini
Book 2 in the story of a boy, his dragon, elves, dwarves and great fun.
A long, long way – Sebastien Barry
World War I through the eyes of a young Irish soldier.
Back issues of Smoke a London Peculiar
An indie magazine full of stories, poetry and art inspired by London.
5. What are the 5 books that have meant a lot to you or that you particularly enjoyed?
Mr Men Series – Roger Hargreaves
Where would I be without Mr. Jelly and Little Miss. Naughty?
Revolting Rhymes – Roald Dahl. Illustrations Quentin Blake
Would recite these poems to my parent’s friends when they came round for dinner. I never knew if their red faces were because of the ‘rude bits’ or too much whisky.
Are you there God it’s me Margaret – Judy Blume
Perfectly captures growing pains. Ah how we all yearned to get our periods as young 10 year old girls . If only we knew.
Little Women - Louisa M. Alcott
First book that made me cry.
Wuthering Heights – Bronte
The prototype for every Mills&Boon hero ever created. Sadly the dark, conniving heroine didn’t catch on.
100 Hundred Years of Solitude - Marquez
The buterflies!
Hey whipple squeeze this – Luke Sullivan
Read as a young trainee living in the bubble world of advertising.
No Logo – Naomi Klein
Burst aforementioned bubble.
6) What book(s) would you wish to buy next?
Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts
The Entire Calvin & Hobbes Series
Delta of Venus – Anais Nin.
7. What book(s) caught your attention but you never had a chance to read?
Gulag Archipelago - Aleksandr Isaevich Solzhenitsyn
Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett
A Clockwork Orange - Anothony burgess
8. What book(s) that you've owned for so long but never read?Grapes of wrath - Steinbeck
Catch 22 – Joseph Heller
Roots – Alex Haley
The Tin Drum - Gunter Grass
Mrs. Dalloway - Virginia Woolf
9. Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?
sorry for doing this to you guys. Please feel free not to comply :)
Falstaff - have you read his blog?
Sonia Faleiro - have you read her blog?
Kaaju Katli - have you read her blog?
flake
kamikaze fairies
swirl down
on wings of frozen water
avoiding
gloved hands
and matching raspberry tongue.
there is no glory
in a soft death
swirl down
on wings of frozen water
avoiding
gloved hands
and matching raspberry tongue.
there is no glory
in a soft death
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
She's got the look
Well that's what I thought with the red lacy template. Some people liked it and some hated it. And then there were the ones who couldn't read the posts. Oh and the family members who threatend to divorce and disown me. So I have changed the look. But remember, I may change my template but never my taste in music. Hail Roxette!
Update
Ok so I changed the look again. I blame the black and blue anomaly on the cold. It's numbed my brain. But please. Don't take Roxette away from me.
Update
Ok so I changed the look again. I blame the black and blue anomaly on the cold. It's numbed my brain. But please. Don't take Roxette away from me.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
To market to market - 2
The smells – roast chestnuts in EC2 and frying vadais in Matunga. The people – Jamaicans, Bangladeshis or masala dosais (as I was once referred to by a Bombay cabbie). The goods – Reebook shoes with slightly askew Nike swooshes (slowly and sadly being replaced by annoying near perfect replicas), plastic buckets and miracle window cleaners that need divine intervention to work at home. The feeling that you’ve outwitted and outpouted your friends and scored the bargain of the century. Aren’t markets wonderful?
My love for them has taken me from sulking in Maadavidhi to being delighted in Camden and robbed in Matunga. While shopping on Oxford Street gives a buzz that’s better than too much Benadryl, there’s nothing like a trawl through Portobello, Greenwhich or Camden Lock.
How Vulgar
One of the oldest London street markets, Petticoat Lane was established over 400 years ago by The Huguenots. The prudish Victorians changed the name of the Lane and market to avoid referring to women's underclothes! I wonder what they’d think of the Union Jack thongs that flutter in the wind now?
Glitzy shoes, last seasons must haves or ‘genuine’ leather coats for just £24.99? Sinatra or reggae? Fried seafood or hot sausage rolls? Just the white turtleneck or the brown cable knit too? Shall we keep going straight or turn right here? This market throws a volley of questions at you. The hawkers smile, cajole and call out. In the midst all the colour and fun a sullen brown council estate. Behind it the tip of The Gherkin juts out. Should I stand there and ponder on this juxtaposition of rich and poor? Before I decide I’m jostled by a burkha glad girl with an East London accent and a glittering nose pin – ‘Scuse me!’ I sing along with Frank – ‘Strangers in the Night, exchanging glances…’ I’m surrounded by people I don’t know. And fall a bit in love.
S&M at Spitalfield
A Patisserie Valeria. The cult makeup brand Benefits. Organic burgers for £10. ‘Old’ Spitalfields Market is anything but. It’s cleaner. Upmarket. Affluent. International. ‘Vietnamese’ bamboo bags. Hungarian food. Japanese stall owners. No one calls out. No one pushes. No puddles to jump over or ugly bags to make fun of. It’s cool, trendy and achingly hip. Like the S&M café (Sausages and Mash) – carefully framed yellowing posters and gleaming red and white chequered tablecloths. Old fashioned. But new. I shop. We eat.
My mind keeps going back to Petticoat Lane. Two streets and a world apart.
My love for them has taken me from sulking in Maadavidhi to being delighted in Camden and robbed in Matunga. While shopping on Oxford Street gives a buzz that’s better than too much Benadryl, there’s nothing like a trawl through Portobello, Greenwhich or Camden Lock.
How Vulgar
One of the oldest London street markets, Petticoat Lane was established over 400 years ago by The Huguenots. The prudish Victorians changed the name of the Lane and market to avoid referring to women's underclothes! I wonder what they’d think of the Union Jack thongs that flutter in the wind now?
Glitzy shoes, last seasons must haves or ‘genuine’ leather coats for just £24.99? Sinatra or reggae? Fried seafood or hot sausage rolls? Just the white turtleneck or the brown cable knit too? Shall we keep going straight or turn right here? This market throws a volley of questions at you. The hawkers smile, cajole and call out. In the midst all the colour and fun a sullen brown council estate. Behind it the tip of The Gherkin juts out. Should I stand there and ponder on this juxtaposition of rich and poor? Before I decide I’m jostled by a burkha glad girl with an East London accent and a glittering nose pin – ‘Scuse me!’ I sing along with Frank – ‘Strangers in the Night, exchanging glances…’ I’m surrounded by people I don’t know. And fall a bit in love.
S&M at Spitalfield
A Patisserie Valeria. The cult makeup brand Benefits. Organic burgers for £10. ‘Old’ Spitalfields Market is anything but. It’s cleaner. Upmarket. Affluent. International. ‘Vietnamese’ bamboo bags. Hungarian food. Japanese stall owners. No one calls out. No one pushes. No puddles to jump over or ugly bags to make fun of. It’s cool, trendy and achingly hip. Like the S&M café (Sausages and Mash) – carefully framed yellowing posters and gleaming red and white chequered tablecloths. Old fashioned. But new. I shop. We eat.
My mind keeps going back to Petticoat Lane. Two streets and a world apart.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Dialogue
“Take me hoooome country roooooads to the plaaace where I be-”
The off-key crooning reached her through the ageing bathroom door.
“Are you done?” she enquired tentatively.
“-looong! West Virginiaaa Moun-”
“Hey! Are you done?”
“Nope! Mountain Mamaaaa-”
“Well how long are you going to take?” She asked hopping from one foot to another.
“I just got in. Another 45 minutes maybe?”
“45 minutes? Look I really need to go”
“You always do this. Every fucking morning. What’s the point of waking up early-”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry but please just today” she whined placing her forehead against the door.
“Fine. But you’ve got to wait. I’m halfway through Greenspan’s interview on Econo-“
“I’m about to soil myself and you want to – look just get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!” she screamed not caring if the neighbours heard through the thin walls of the apartment.
“You know that attitude won’t help you.” Even though she couldn’t see him he raised his nose snootily as he said this.
“Fine. 5 minutes. I’ll be back”
“Hasta La-”
She stomped off not waiting for the rest of his taunting comeback.
“Ok. Keep walking. Take your mind off it. Don’t think about it. Dust something. Plump a cushion. What should I make for dinner? Maybe I should call Mom. Maybe I should pack my lunch. Maybe I should do the dishes. Maybe I should have married someone who could afford a flat with two bathrooms.” She muttered as retraced her steps back to the bathroom door. “Right. Time’s up!”
“You’ve been gone exactly 30 seconds… and all your screaming has frightened my bowels. I get another extra minute.”
“I hate you. After I go I’m leaving you.” She hissed as she rattled the doorknob.
“But after you go won’t you already be – gone?”
“Ha Ha! Smarty pants”
“Since you’ve been goooone”
“Kelly Clarkson? That’s it! You’ve had it” She screeched pummelling the door with both hands.
“Are you trying to break the door down? How very Jack Nicholson…the axe is in the airing cupboard. Heeeer’es Johhnie!”
His bellowing laugh shook her out of the demented door banging and she backed away.
“I’ll teach that lying, sneaky, smug, two face-”
“There. All yours.” The narrow passage reverberated with the whooshing of the noisy cistern and his voice.
“Ass hole.” She muttered kicking him as she entered the bathroom.
She sat down and sighed in relief as the anger flowed out.
“You there? I love you.”
“Me too”
THE ASSIGNMENT
STAGE 1
Two characters are 'talking'. Pretend it's a script, with no prose at all in between. Your characters are in conflict (that doesn't necessarily mean an argument.) Make the dialogue work very very hard. Consider the possibilities of irony, misunderstanding, humour, subtext, differing perspectives, contrast between voices... What is NOT said?
STAGE 2
IF you have time, go back and add only the most necessary prose in between the speaking parts:
-- to identify or locate characters (eg "she was still in her school uniform", "he was sitting on a pile of pumpkins", "they had reached the top floor where the view...", "It was 1789 and Paris was...")
-- to clarify important or unspoken action (eg "he dropped the gun", "her perfume reminded him of his stepmother", "the car didn't stop", "the chandeliers shook with the first roll of thunder"...)
STAGE 3
Please bring clear copies to class next week. Your work will be read out by others.
The off-key crooning reached her through the ageing bathroom door.
“Are you done?” she enquired tentatively.
“-looong! West Virginiaaa Moun-”
“Hey! Are you done?”
“Nope! Mountain Mamaaaa-”
“Well how long are you going to take?” She asked hopping from one foot to another.
“I just got in. Another 45 minutes maybe?”
“45 minutes? Look I really need to go”
“You always do this. Every fucking morning. What’s the point of waking up early-”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry but please just today” she whined placing her forehead against the door.
“Fine. But you’ve got to wait. I’m halfway through Greenspan’s interview on Econo-“
“I’m about to soil myself and you want to – look just get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!” she screamed not caring if the neighbours heard through the thin walls of the apartment.
“You know that attitude won’t help you.” Even though she couldn’t see him he raised his nose snootily as he said this.
“Fine. 5 minutes. I’ll be back”
“Hasta La-”
She stomped off not waiting for the rest of his taunting comeback.
“Ok. Keep walking. Take your mind off it. Don’t think about it. Dust something. Plump a cushion. What should I make for dinner? Maybe I should call Mom. Maybe I should pack my lunch. Maybe I should do the dishes. Maybe I should have married someone who could afford a flat with two bathrooms.” She muttered as retraced her steps back to the bathroom door. “Right. Time’s up!”
“You’ve been gone exactly 30 seconds… and all your screaming has frightened my bowels. I get another extra minute.”
“I hate you. After I go I’m leaving you.” She hissed as she rattled the doorknob.
“But after you go won’t you already be – gone?”
“Ha Ha! Smarty pants”
“Since you’ve been goooone”
“Kelly Clarkson? That’s it! You’ve had it” She screeched pummelling the door with both hands.
“Are you trying to break the door down? How very Jack Nicholson…the axe is in the airing cupboard. Heeeer’es Johhnie!”
His bellowing laugh shook her out of the demented door banging and she backed away.
“I’ll teach that lying, sneaky, smug, two face-”
“There. All yours.” The narrow passage reverberated with the whooshing of the noisy cistern and his voice.
“Ass hole.” She muttered kicking him as she entered the bathroom.
She sat down and sighed in relief as the anger flowed out.
“You there? I love you.”
“Me too”
THE ASSIGNMENT
STAGE 1
Two characters are 'talking'. Pretend it's a script, with no prose at all in between. Your characters are in conflict (that doesn't necessarily mean an argument.) Make the dialogue work very very hard. Consider the possibilities of irony, misunderstanding, humour, subtext, differing perspectives, contrast between voices... What is NOT said?
STAGE 2
IF you have time, go back and add only the most necessary prose in between the speaking parts:
-- to identify or locate characters (eg "she was still in her school uniform", "he was sitting on a pile of pumpkins", "they had reached the top floor where the view...", "It was 1789 and Paris was...")
-- to clarify important or unspoken action (eg "he dropped the gun", "her perfume reminded him of his stepmother", "the car didn't stop", "the chandeliers shook with the first roll of thunder"...)
STAGE 3
Please bring clear copies to class next week. Your work will be read out by others.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Senses
The first thing she notices when she enters the room is the way it smells. Not a strong signature scent but apple-jilebi. Banana-rose. Milk-disinfectant. Whifflings born from the copulation of several distinct odours. She inhales the bouquet deeply and in return offers the room her own – a mixture of fear, sweat and sickly sweet perfume.
The door shuts gently behind her. Blocking out the girlish giggles of the family's 60 year old matrons and draping the room in darkness. She shuffles forward and makes a haphazard left, unsure of her way. Her soft feet squish against the worn, grimy floor, seeking out the well-defined borders of each square tile. She pauses and fingers (toes?) a tiny crater she chances upon at the corner of a slab.
Her jangling anklets are halted as she bumps in to something hard. The bed. Her mother-in-law had pointed at this ageing four-poster behemoth earlier and cracked a ribald joke that had made her blush.
A quilt has been thrown over the mattress in an attempt to disguise its hard and lumpy terrain. The bed is high and she is forced to clamber inelegantly upon it. She puts a tentative hand out to explore the quilt. Softness and then a little bump. Softness. Another bump. It is embroidered. She seeks out the trail of tiny thread hillocks trying to decipher what they form. A blue elephant? A gaudy pink paisley? A mythical white swan? She turns her face and is gently slapped by a long, snakelike garland of flowers – rose, jasmine, marigold. They wind their way across the beams of the bed. Benign serpents that cast off their perfumed skin on every available surface.
As she lets out a soft sigh a stronger gust of air blows through an open window behind the bed. It brings with it dust, clues about the neighbour's dinner and the strains of an old film song. She jumps off her perch, boredom driving her to explore her new surroundings. No longer afraid she makes her way around the bed. Keeping one hand on it though. Just in case.
The bed ends and she puts her arms out front. Playing blind mans bluff with the dark. She stops when her fingers find a wall and gropes the surface. It is flaky and leaves her fingertips coated with a chalky powder. Cheap distemper. A half-hearted attempt to spruce up an old room for a new bride. She walks on dragging her fingers over the wall leaving in her wake paint slivers and the occasional stray flower from her headdress.
The wall gives way to a surface of smoother finish. A cold, metallic handle forces itself in to her hand, begging to be pulled. She pauses waiting for the room to give her – its new mistress some indication of its approval. But it remains dark and silent. Almost hostile. Taking this as a sign she moves on, leaving the mysterious door for another day.
Her nose guides her to where the sweets and fruits have been kept. She knows that they are arranged on the ornate silver plates that are a part of her dowry. Sweets rich in milk,ghee, saffron and coconut. Ripe bananas, guavas and apples.
The banana doubling as an incense stick holder. Hungry, she reaches out touching sticky, soft treats until her fingers close over the coiled body of a jilebi.
The door suddenly opens and she hears the click of the light switch. She shuts her eyes blocking out the two intruders. Her new husband. And the light.
The assignment
Describe a room. It can be any room. Imagined, remembered, dreaded, loved, public, private, empty, full of people, fictional, personal...
Know your room before you start writing about it.
Your audience should be able to know your room as well as you do. They should be able to see it, smell it, feel it. If you don’t know your room inside-out, your uncertainty will leak through tiny cracks in the prose.
Each student has the additional task of writing within specified stylistic restrictions.
Mine was to write WITH ALL SENSES EXCEPT SIGHT (BUT NOT BLIND)
Not sure if I've managed to carry out the task fully. I feel as though something is missing. Feedback as always is appreciated!
The door shuts gently behind her. Blocking out the girlish giggles of the family's 60 year old matrons and draping the room in darkness. She shuffles forward and makes a haphazard left, unsure of her way. Her soft feet squish against the worn, grimy floor, seeking out the well-defined borders of each square tile. She pauses and fingers (toes?) a tiny crater she chances upon at the corner of a slab.
Her jangling anklets are halted as she bumps in to something hard. The bed. Her mother-in-law had pointed at this ageing four-poster behemoth earlier and cracked a ribald joke that had made her blush.
A quilt has been thrown over the mattress in an attempt to disguise its hard and lumpy terrain. The bed is high and she is forced to clamber inelegantly upon it. She puts a tentative hand out to explore the quilt. Softness and then a little bump. Softness. Another bump. It is embroidered. She seeks out the trail of tiny thread hillocks trying to decipher what they form. A blue elephant? A gaudy pink paisley? A mythical white swan? She turns her face and is gently slapped by a long, snakelike garland of flowers – rose, jasmine, marigold. They wind their way across the beams of the bed. Benign serpents that cast off their perfumed skin on every available surface.
As she lets out a soft sigh a stronger gust of air blows through an open window behind the bed. It brings with it dust, clues about the neighbour's dinner and the strains of an old film song. She jumps off her perch, boredom driving her to explore her new surroundings. No longer afraid she makes her way around the bed. Keeping one hand on it though. Just in case.
The bed ends and she puts her arms out front. Playing blind mans bluff with the dark. She stops when her fingers find a wall and gropes the surface. It is flaky and leaves her fingertips coated with a chalky powder. Cheap distemper. A half-hearted attempt to spruce up an old room for a new bride. She walks on dragging her fingers over the wall leaving in her wake paint slivers and the occasional stray flower from her headdress.
The wall gives way to a surface of smoother finish. A cold, metallic handle forces itself in to her hand, begging to be pulled. She pauses waiting for the room to give her – its new mistress some indication of its approval. But it remains dark and silent. Almost hostile. Taking this as a sign she moves on, leaving the mysterious door for another day.
Her nose guides her to where the sweets and fruits have been kept. She knows that they are arranged on the ornate silver plates that are a part of her dowry. Sweets rich in milk,ghee, saffron and coconut. Ripe bananas, guavas and apples.
The banana doubling as an incense stick holder. Hungry, she reaches out touching sticky, soft treats until her fingers close over the coiled body of a jilebi.
The door suddenly opens and she hears the click of the light switch. She shuts her eyes blocking out the two intruders. Her new husband. And the light.
The assignment
Describe a room. It can be any room. Imagined, remembered, dreaded, loved, public, private, empty, full of people, fictional, personal...
Know your room before you start writing about it.
Your audience should be able to know your room as well as you do. They should be able to see it, smell it, feel it. If you don’t know your room inside-out, your uncertainty will leak through tiny cracks in the prose.
Each student has the additional task of writing within specified stylistic restrictions.
Mine was to write WITH ALL SENSES EXCEPT SIGHT (BUT NOT BLIND)
Not sure if I've managed to carry out the task fully. I feel as though something is missing. Feedback as always is appreciated!
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Indignant
I’ve been lying for hours here in the bushes. On my back. In the cold. My legs up in the air and held in place by invisible stirrups. If my mother saw me right now she would hang her head in shame. But she isn’t. So I feel shame on her behalf. For lying on my back with my legs in the air.
Understandably I am upset. Not just because of my situation. But because no one seems to have realised that I’m missing. Now don’t go jumping to conclusions. I’m not some antisocial recluse. In fact I go out of my way to get to know people. To help them. Sometimes I think people take advantage of me. Push me around. Tell me what to do. But I don’t complain. I know my station in life. I do as I’m told. And this is what I get in return. I end up lying on my back in the cold with my legs up in the air.
I can see my so-called friends from where I lie. They’re only a few hundred yards away. Huddled up and gossiping about the day. The strong boasting about how much work they got done. The old and the lame standing at the fringes quietly remembering their own glory days. None of them have realised that I’m missing. When I get out of this mess they’re going to find out just what I think of them. But right now, I’m lying on my back in the cold with my legs up in the air.
Quite a few people have walked by. Some of them have seen me. But they avert their gaze before our eyes meet. Once eyes meet a person feels bound to come over and help. A strange human trait. So to avoid the inconvenience they look away. “Why bother.” They’re all thinking. “It’s not my problem. Why get involved.”
I wish I could feel indignant. But what right does an overturned Tesco Trolley have to feel indignant. So I lie there. On my back. In the cold. With my legs up in the air.
Understandably I am upset. Not just because of my situation. But because no one seems to have realised that I’m missing. Now don’t go jumping to conclusions. I’m not some antisocial recluse. In fact I go out of my way to get to know people. To help them. Sometimes I think people take advantage of me. Push me around. Tell me what to do. But I don’t complain. I know my station in life. I do as I’m told. And this is what I get in return. I end up lying on my back in the cold with my legs up in the air.
I can see my so-called friends from where I lie. They’re only a few hundred yards away. Huddled up and gossiping about the day. The strong boasting about how much work they got done. The old and the lame standing at the fringes quietly remembering their own glory days. None of them have realised that I’m missing. When I get out of this mess they’re going to find out just what I think of them. But right now, I’m lying on my back in the cold with my legs up in the air.
Quite a few people have walked by. Some of them have seen me. But they avert their gaze before our eyes meet. Once eyes meet a person feels bound to come over and help. A strange human trait. So to avoid the inconvenience they look away. “Why bother.” They’re all thinking. “It’s not my problem. Why get involved.”
I wish I could feel indignant. But what right does an overturned Tesco Trolley have to feel indignant. So I lie there. On my back. In the cold. With my legs up in the air.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Assignment 2
The 5 minute interview
Dirk Dawson
Actor
The Independent
December 12th, 2005
I wish people would take more notice of…
How hard it is to look sexy
As his grapefruit coloured eyes took an easy morning walk over his naked frame, Dirk Dawson decided with authority that he was still gorgeous. Which was quite an achievement considering the fact that he'd just celebrated his 47th birthday for the third year in a row. He was pretty sure that he could pass off for younger, but his agent was adamant that 47 be the official number.
As he stepped in to what his decorator had called a Brad Pitt meets Dalai Lama shower (serene but sexy) Dirk's thoughts wandered to last week. He'd been having a suit fitted at a store on Savile Row when a young couple had breezed in. He'd waited for the inevitable hovering and hesitant "Excuse me, but aren't you…?" but it never came. The young woman had walked straight past him as though he were a pinstriped mannequin and her boyfriend had been too busy convincing her that pinstripes were for old farts.
Dirk Dawson – the next 007?
Rolling Stone
January 1994
"Well fuck them. I'm 47 and don't need Viagra" Dirk muttered as he towelled himself dry. He thought of telling his agent Martine about what had happened but he didn't want another earful about reality shows giving him a younger fan base. There was no way he was going to get on TV in a red lycra cat suit and drink milk out of a some transvestite's hand. Or eat bugs and then defecate his lunch in front of a camera. He'd acted with Chevy Chase and presented an Oscar in the 80s for God's sake. He would have been James Bond too if that mick Pierce Brosnan hadn't agreed to work for a couple of million less. So what if a bunch of snot nosed kids didn't know who he was?
Supermodel's 'Dirky' little secret
The Daily Mail
February 14th, 1999
Dirk fumbled with his microdermabrasion kit. But it wasn't just the kids. There were the producers that promised to call but never did. Writers who seemed to write parts solely for faggot actors. So a few years ago Martine had started to carefully orchestrate 'scoops' that managed to keep him in circulation. There was the affair with the under age model. The stint at The Priory in '97 – even though it'd been about 12 years since he'd jacked up. There was the column he 'wrote' for a women's magazine on how to figure men out. But it was all PR bullshit and favours Martine pulled with editors who thought he was cool in a retro way. ("You used to wear Levis? No waaay!") None of it was real. Except The List.
Small town boy with big city dreams
Esquire
June 1985
Every year middle aged women who had once taped his picture over their bed and thought of him in the shower voted him on to The100 Sexiest Men of the Year list.
Those women probably lived in Swansea now in some crap semi-detached with kids named Chardonnay or Chastity. But once upon on a time they used send him pictures of themselves in nothing but leg warmers. He reminded them of what it was like to be young and sexy and in return they voted for him. The List always got him work - a small role in a period production, a Panto during Christmas – even the odd commercial. He was hoping for something at the West End this year that didn't involve wearing harem pants and shaving his chest though. Dirk dressed with care. The List was going to be out today and he and Martine were meeting for a celebratory lunch.
David Cameron voted to 100 sexiest men list
The Independent
February 2nd 2006
Dirk sat in disbelief. His risotto was as cold as the feeling that weighed down on his heart. Edged off the list by that pudding-faced Tory prat? Because he cycled to work and had a slow son?
"I'm sorry Dirk - it isn't just about having a great ass anymore"
He glared at Martine. "Call them up. It's mistake or something. I can't be off the list."
Dirk Dawson tipped to win Celebrity Big Brother.
The Daily Mail
June 15th 2006
Update
The assignment:
To choose a newspaper or magazine article that makes an impact on you. It can be a frivolous little bulletin from page XX or a major feature. The article can be about anything, but it should tell a factual story with a beginning, middle and end. Use the article as the basis for a fictional story of your own.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Nine yards of memories
To me a wardrobe is more than a structure that stores clothes, bags and accessories. I like to think of them as a repository of memories – happy ones, sad ones, funny and bittersweet ones.
Some clothes have such strong associations attached to them that long after they have ceased to fit or be fashionable I’ve still held on to them. They form tenuous if somewhat threadbare links to my past that I’m loathe to sever.
Like the tiny waistcoat I’ve had for a good 20 years now. In a lurid rani pink, it’s embellished with Chinese symbols and lined in white faux fur. Hardly a look for Spring/Summer 2006. But I remember wearing it to a birthday party (of a person who I can no longer remember) when I was five years old. It reminds me of a carefree time in my life when I could eat all the ice cream I wanted and not worry about the consequences. That’s the beauty of clothes - I may forget faces and names but I’ll always remember what I wore.
There’s the white dress my father bought me after a business trip to London. It hangs in my cupboard, the cellophane covering from a dry cleaning 12 years ago untouched. A denim jacket from my terrible tweens covered in lovingly collected buttons and badges that proclaimed I was ‘Single and ready to mingle’ or ‘One atom bomb is all it takes to ruin your day’.
There are the dresses I no longer possess but still remember. Like the beige and cream salwar I wore on my first day of college. And the leather Fab India satchel I had slung over my shoulder. Desi but not dehaat. Or at least I’d hoped so. The sari I wore for my school farewell. 6 metres of maroon organza dress material that were so transparent I still can’t show anyone the pictures.
There are the good, the bad and the ugly. Brand new, hateful hand me downs and delicious booty stolen from my sister’s cupboard. Atrocious denim capris embroidered with letters of the alphabet circa 1987. A black and red bandhini skirt that I wish I still had. The white chikan work dupatta my sister bought me from Lucknow. Too beautiful to actually wear but regularly taken out and caressed.
And then there’s my wedding sari. Nine yards of peacock blue juxtaposed with a startling red and gold border. Awkward and uncomfortable. Hard to sit and walk in and difficult to drape. It hangs in the dark confines of my cupboard now, taken out once year for Varalakshmi Nombu. During this annual airing I like to pretend that the smell that clings to it is actually from the smoke of the agnikundam and not eau d’mothball. That the small dark stain in the corner is one of the many tears I shed that day and not payasam (kheer). And that every crease and fold that stubbornly stays in place represents a memory that can never be ironed out.
Some clothes have such strong associations attached to them that long after they have ceased to fit or be fashionable I’ve still held on to them. They form tenuous if somewhat threadbare links to my past that I’m loathe to sever.
Like the tiny waistcoat I’ve had for a good 20 years now. In a lurid rani pink, it’s embellished with Chinese symbols and lined in white faux fur. Hardly a look for Spring/Summer 2006. But I remember wearing it to a birthday party (of a person who I can no longer remember) when I was five years old. It reminds me of a carefree time in my life when I could eat all the ice cream I wanted and not worry about the consequences. That’s the beauty of clothes - I may forget faces and names but I’ll always remember what I wore.
There’s the white dress my father bought me after a business trip to London. It hangs in my cupboard, the cellophane covering from a dry cleaning 12 years ago untouched. A denim jacket from my terrible tweens covered in lovingly collected buttons and badges that proclaimed I was ‘Single and ready to mingle’ or ‘One atom bomb is all it takes to ruin your day’.
There are the dresses I no longer possess but still remember. Like the beige and cream salwar I wore on my first day of college. And the leather Fab India satchel I had slung over my shoulder. Desi but not dehaat. Or at least I’d hoped so. The sari I wore for my school farewell. 6 metres of maroon organza dress material that were so transparent I still can’t show anyone the pictures.
There are the good, the bad and the ugly. Brand new, hateful hand me downs and delicious booty stolen from my sister’s cupboard. Atrocious denim capris embroidered with letters of the alphabet circa 1987. A black and red bandhini skirt that I wish I still had. The white chikan work dupatta my sister bought me from Lucknow. Too beautiful to actually wear but regularly taken out and caressed.
And then there’s my wedding sari. Nine yards of peacock blue juxtaposed with a startling red and gold border. Awkward and uncomfortable. Hard to sit and walk in and difficult to drape. It hangs in the dark confines of my cupboard now, taken out once year for Varalakshmi Nombu. During this annual airing I like to pretend that the smell that clings to it is actually from the smoke of the agnikundam and not eau d’mothball. That the small dark stain in the corner is one of the many tears I shed that day and not payasam (kheer). And that every crease and fold that stubbornly stays in place represents a memory that can never be ironed out.
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