Thursday, December 21, 2006

Sarah

I had lunch today in the Infolab cafe with Davey. I hadn't been in there for more than a year, since the end of last summer actually, when I was unceremoniously kicked from the waitress job I held by the woman who supervised the place. Pauline was her name.

Sarah was behind the counter today, and I couldn't help but widen my eyes in surprise when I beheld her over the still same tortelloni bake and pork cuts. The menu hasn't changed a whitt, but Sarah has dramatically bloated.

She must be eighteen now. I couldn't help follow her with horrified eyes whenever she waddled past cleaning up tables and bringing out food. Last summer, slowly over the lunch times that we worked together, she had told me her mother was working for Uni Catering too, in the management school, that she had just found a new flat and was all excited about having her own place and a proper fulltime job, about how she was seeing Pauline's son who was nineteen, and asked me eagerly if I thought he was Fit, when he slouched by one afternoon to pick her up.

The most riveting fact she told me was that she had never been to London, and had no immediate intention of ever visiting it. Why good god oh why on earth wouldn't you visit London I haemorraged, I mean, it's LONDON. Like Paris or NewYork. People from my part of the world dream of seeing London, and you are only a three hour train ride away.

She didn't like big cities, she said. She had visited Manchester a few times and wasn't impressed.

Later I wasn't so surprised when I met white 30 and 40 yr olds that never visited London, or any of the big cities (Manchester, Birmingham, Edinburgh, even Leeds or Sheffield) for that matter, as they were unequal to the ordeal of venturing out of their little towns and meeting strangers who spoke in a strange tongue of differently accented English than theirs. 'Have you heard the Newcastle accent,' one white person shuddered dramatically, 'only thing worse than the Liverpudlian accent luv.'

Sarah was happy. She worked 70-80 hours a week, went out and got pissed every night, and smoked like a chimney, like every other girl or boy her age who was in full time employment.

My first day at work, I had asked her innocently, 'Are you a student?' She had said, 'Good god no. why would you think that.(I think she was secretly flattered, though that might just be the narcissist in me). I hated school and have no intention studying anymore.'

Slowly, insiduosly, I began dropping hints that studying something she really wanted to wouldn't be such an ordeal. She was so good at her job. What about something like Hotel management? Her eyes sparked for a moment. She really has pretty eyes. 'Yeah, summat like that would be awright i suppose..'

Obviously, no one in her family had ever talked to her about accomplishing anything in life other than a lifetime of servitude to uni catering. This is unimaginable to someone like me, freshly sprung from middle class India whose very apogee of aspiration is Higher Studies.

Sarah would probably marry Pauline's son and pop out two kids in three years. Pauline's brother-in-law works for uni catering too. So does Sarah's mom, who smokes more than her daughter, and constantly swipes her cigarrettes. So uni catering would be kind of all-in-the-family in a few years time. And the family would go on resenting the students, even though students are what the whole economy of little Lancaster sustains itself on, and would go on failing to realise that it is but a small step from servitude under unscrupulous catering bosses to uni life where you can discovver untold potential within yourself in the course of your flowering three years amidst uni-promoted boozing in the nine uni-bars and the several in town that offer student discounts.

I'm glad I got booted out of the job. The ricotta was greasy, the mozzerella chewy, and the hot chocolate pudding from the microwave. Maybe I'll pop by again in six months, before I get kicked out of the country by the home office, and see if Sarah is still working here, and leave all smug with a greasy undertone of pity.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Making Blackberry Jam in November

We should have removed the twiggy bits before we froze them berries.

I had spent the summer in India and got back at the end of September, and John had waited for me to go blackberry picking. We hunted the roadsides of the hilly cattley bit of Rochdale (to those of you who know Rochdale only by its football hooligans and scally centered towny bit - there's a beautiful beautiful valley too, just behind John's house) for the tumbling finger snagging deep purple staining bunderberries.

We strained; well, I strained. Little Gabriel, showing impatience typical of his age, wasn't impressed by the quantities we found, and started eating then and there, whatever we did find. John had his new camera growing out of his face, as he clicked and clicked his darlings, one of whom glared at him malevolently and ordered him every ten minutes to lend a hand.

I stooped, I stretched, I winced as the thorns pricked, but I was indefatigable in my short denim dress. Summer was making a last ditch attempt to impress before she burst into her autumn plumage, and the sun kissed and kissed us all afternoon.

Amidst a raging argument over whether the tree i spotted was laden with elderberries or blackcurrants (I was proved wrong after a later google search for distinguishing features)Gabriel climbed up John's shoulders to ravage some high up branches, John pretending to come over all faint from the poison berries that were mimicking blackcurrants.

Some glorious sunlit photographs (of a lot of exposed leg and dark blond boy)and a white plastic bag seeping with shameless violet juices, we returned to the car. Gabriel having gorged himself on the berries, had to expel them in a hurry. John, laughing, Hang on son we'll be home soon, to the much contorted berry-stained face.

Having got back, the furious home-maker despatched the berrybag to the freezer before I could turn around and register what he was doing, in the hippopotamus way I have, and I left it there. The twigs will come off when they come off, I thought.

They finally came out of their unseasonal hibernation as we got jam making yesterday. A bitch getting the frozen twigs off the frozen berries. A bitch trying to convince my darling I knew how to make jam (Yes, they still aren't cooked enough; No, you don't have to stir every five seconds; Yes, that's all the sugar we need; No, absolutely no point standing and watching the pot, as it will take about an hour to be ready; Yes, that is an acceptable ocnsistency; No, you don't have to taste the jam every five minutes, this is not stew). He still checked out five different recipes on the internet. After much chastising him on not sterilising the bottles properly (upended jars previously inhabited by peanut butter, old jam and colour-turned unidentifiable liquid), after washing them again myself to satisfy my pseudo sense of hygiene, we poured, closed and sealed.

And today, I had my first dollop on buttered brown toast. Perfect!

Monday, August 21, 2006

Headache

Looping streams
Threading needles
A bunch of red sparks
in water, in a vase
thomm! thomm! rrrrrrrllll
%%^^>>>>

Sunday, April 30, 2006

haha, that's a controversial title. i love it.

One More Raisin In My bun

wet grass slips under my feet
but they are touching air
are electric pylons dead martians
do i care

sometimes it seems my brain
wants to explode with all it understands,
the intense sympathy of knowing
all and in between lard and lance

spring to, sweep at, drag under, stuff and stuff
what is left, what is undone or done
years it will take and yet everyday
there's one more raisin in my bun

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Easter break.. Whew...

Ha, Thanks god for term breaks.
wib wobs was getting to me... i almost shouted at an annoying customer during my last shift. er.. told him off actually, but the brute probably didnt understand my subtle telling off. most of them don't.

another 1000 word a day pledge. marathon. 30,000 by April 25th? er.... wanna say, like hell, but being optimistic and all that (1000 words down today), i shall say.. fingers crossed.

and this has to somehow happen around disruptions like office hours, meeting shannon, davey etc, visiting the valley (ha.. that sounds mysterious), having the girls visit.. ooohh...

wanting to go anti social again, but valley and girls can't be avoided. hmmm...

Monday, March 20, 2006

story by haruki murakami

Ha, I found it... dear Malchisadek,
it starts like this..

On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning
Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"


"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

....and so it goes

Saturday, March 18, 2006

the mere bones

What do I need to write here…
Story 1
Aspiring model meets with horrid middle man..
Gap toothed..peanut crunching
Ciggie smoke blowing
Modern coffee shop
Funny ashtray; looks like a misshapen pot.
Talks of lingerie ads coming up.. tirupur
Movie.. how simran was introduced by him
Music video…
Bhavesh bhai..meeting in his car…
Picks her up.. unhappy with her conservative clothes and no/little-makeup
Bhai and her in car… talk talk… clean rich teeth and hair…
Talks of being friends.. friendly advice- never do lingerie ads- u say yes means u willing to sleep with them..
Drives all around bang; wanting to be friends, wanting promise of meeting again..
Drops her off…

Friday, March 10, 2006

embar

assing is the saturday feb 18th post now i find.
hmm.... tempting to delete, but must keep for checking every so often and renew embarrasment as lesson to learn continually.
sop. sad sap.
like to also i do talk like yoda do.

stirring the sun

stirring the sun
and leapfrog the horizon
scratch the eardrums burst
sinking in cold fathoms deep snow
pinprick the tender arch, instep
steely eyed cat on mahogany table o
rattle the woodwork
rattle the claptrap horsecart vandyke
pine tail tin drum drum
leap and leap and leap frog
the horizon
stirring, crooning like elvis
flick the hair back
talk quivery dialogue after dialogue
after dialogue
like chevalier shivaji ganesan
enunciate
hold my hand
... and jump

Saturday, February 18, 2006

This is what I see

I see that you and I would be fantastic together. We'd have great kids, and our home would be cluttered, rambling, heaving. Chaotic, rollicking, and topsy turvy. Every single day. There would be great fights, great discussions, dramatic utterences and over the top make-up sessions, apologies and declarations of love.

There'd be curiosities, nick nacks and tid bits, and not of the gastronomic kind, scattered everywhere. Each piece will have its own story, history. Even the tea spoon will be quivering with passion, and something to tell.

Our kids will not know what hit them and where they landed and whats happening till they grow up and leave home. But they will have learnt a lot of survival skills, and to argue.. a lot.

There will be a mountain of books.. or mountains of books.. in every single room, including the garage and the bathroom.

There will never be a 'Hush, baby sleeping' sign for any of the kids. They would just learn to sleep inspite of the vibrations of chaos.

Friends would know they could leave the whole world behind them when they enter ours, for they can be what they want to be and then some more. Their kids would wish they were ours. Ours would look horrified at such a wish.
This, and some more, is what i see.

But what I don't see, I suppose, is that I keep thinking you are some one that I want you to be, but you are not that, not yet, and perhaps will never be, for you don't see what I see.

You don't see that constraints are like blankets. You throw them off when the sun shines through. You might like to snuggle under and snooze as long as you like, but eventually, you do throw them off, or should. Even if after, you have to wade through piercing cold to reach your bathrobe.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Shot in the Dark

Deleted as this post will be published in an online mag soon.

The Sweet Sound Of Bees

Could you love a bee
that buzzed, tickled your ear,
brought tiny legs up to lips,
while amber honey dripped
down your breast?
And if he followed it there
carried it down
to the place where you open
like flowers, clear petals. If wings
grew tongues, and he said
you were enough
the very essence of you
that he could live, grow
in the sweet sugar of your hip.

Would you then turn and walk
away?
Say he is not a man with legs,
speak of spiders or ants
who would deny you both a place.
What if these were not reasons
just something you said,
for the hum had grown so sweet,
you realized an ability to sting.

T. E. Ballard

Friday, February 03, 2006

monday - entire day xcept 3 hrs
tuesday - entire day xcept 3 hrs
wednesday - post 6 pm
thursday - entire day xcept 3 hrs
friday - post 6 pm
saturday - entire day
sunday - no time

plenty of time i seem to have.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

1 to

25 what the fuck am i doings.

The Flu has revisited, and has brought along Fever.
Thankfully, Toothache, after one extended visit, decided I'm not its cup of tea.
Some burdday.

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Saturday, January 21, 2006

bleeurh.. The State Of Celibacy

Excrutiatingly long and excrutiatingly dull day.

Shouldn't have broken the self-imposed exile. i was happy during the long christmas break not meeting anyone at all, and just pottering about in my room and kitchen and only meeting davey for christmas and newyear, who doesnt count anywyas. shouldnt have have made a habit of meeting lumberjack every single day after term started, and going out for drinks with the manchunian and the bulgarian. heated up my blood again i think, and re-induced craving for testosterone. especially at wib-wobs, the untiring games of lets cuddle anita, exchanging chaste kisses with ni-tone under guise of enacting funny scenes or illustrating movie scenes or reward for a perfect cup of latte, and georgy-porgy teasing me as being their personal raggedy-ann to be thrown around and giving a back rub everytime my shoulders slump from the weight of work, and big-ed's crushing hugs when too many customers barge in and order blue cheese special, to make him feel better and making me sit on his knee to prove my weightlessness, and of course, the boss's penchant for a floorsliding dance moves and throwing me on the meat table to tickle me to death.

unendurable long day with no testosterone around and my state of celibacy is mortally challenged;
slept till 1, napped from 4 to 6, now sitting in gloomy reading light and typing reams of dull words.
waiting for a phone call, a text, an email, a nod, a nudge to dispel the gloom and give me an excuse to rattle out a laughter, deliver a hmmmm and fill my ears with the warmth of a communique from a different head.
shouldnt let the coldness thaw; thaw, warmth, flood, torrent, disaster. in every sense.

words

fierce
unkempt
why don't i ever use these words? they are singularly loverly

this morning's (afternoon's) post awakened phase - bleary.

yyy

Thursday, January 12, 2006

library... here i come...

havent written a word in 4 days.. sheer fear of frustation of efforts... and laziness...
ah... finally can get library access. tired of reading mills and boon and bloody chekov as theres nothing else in the room...
woo... what will i borrow tom..?
chandler.. farewell my lovely.. yes yes yes
hmm...dubliners.. joyce.. for sure
then ill be spontaneous and grab stuff off shelves...
ah.. i have to wait till tomorrow...
and after that.. i just wont have any time to read coz i'd be working like a pig won't i..
grrrr.....

Monday, January 09, 2006

the day after goody good

read the 4000. shit shit shit.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

clinging on to sanity

ok, title is exaggerating.. i've recovered from the 2 agents' in-a-record two hour email rejection. made me realise... they're right.. i'm not happy enough with this stuff, though it has hope... so started writing from another angle right away... goody good. close to 4000 down... sorta comi-tragic (note the inversion) naipaulesque... still floundering to find my distinctive style... which is only good...
also very good is, im sticking with the story... Yep! after a year and four attempts, all diff stories, my fifth one sticks...and unlike in the case of pancakes, sticks is good.