5 posts tagged “5wordchallenge”

People said she was stupid and she sang crass songs. Her favorite musicians were The Kinks. She was often asked this question. "Who's your favorite musician of all times?" As if she was obligated to answer simply because she sang. Usually she answered, "Burt Bacharach", all the time her soul bursting up against her rib cage, yelling, "They're putting us in little boxes/ No character just uniformity/ They're trying to build a computerized community/ But they'll never make a zombie out of me…."

 Now she was sitting in the bath of a Japanese hotel, snorting coke off a torn piece off the breakfast menu. She could see Gwen Stefani from the corner of her eyes. She chortled with laughter and immediately gagged a bit on the coke. That girl was a time bomb of paradoxes. Sexy. Think Gavin Rossdale. Naive. Think Harajuku Dolls.

She had once met Gwen backstage. Gwen had smiled, that radiant, sunlike smile that dazzled her eyes and hid what Gwen’s were telling. Was it pity she saw in Gwen’s eyes? Friendship? Kindness? Anyways, it felt beautiful.

And ANYWAYS, here she was, snorting coke. It didn’t do to dwell on the recent past, especially her recent past. Her voice was gone (her face was gone) which is why her contract was gone which is why her manager was going. Her babies were on injunction. Her mother, bless her soul, was on TV. Lynne Spears "has cried her heart out over the trouble between her and Britney. She is brokenhearted. She wants her baby to be okay and to bring her grandkids home to Kentwood and raise them in a normal environment."

She flopped forward. Little sub-menus swirled around in the water, like gondolas released from their moorings at night.

(Not true, obviously. Much artistic license taken, still more obviously. Quote sourced from here.)

In the meantime, the boiled milk has cooled down to room temperature. Spoon in a little curd and cover the milk bowl, so that it (the milk) curdles in time for the meal. Polish the table, cover it with a starched white table cloth, and you’re nearly set.

Set the plates, spoons, knives and forks, and glasses for water and/ or juice. Bring the bowls of food from the kitchen and arrange them on the table in the order in which you will have them. You can put a bunch of flowers in a bottle on the table or burn a few incense sticks in a far corner of the house, and play some music.

Next, comb your hair and exchange your cooking dress for a clean one. Wash your hands and moisturize them with a non-fragrant hand cream, taking special care around the joints and the knuckles. Make one last trip to the kitchen. Dice the apple, melon, oranges, peach, and mango and arrange them in an ice cream bowl, scoop the fresh curd onto the fruit, drizzle with honey, nuts, dried dates and dried watermelon seeds.

You’re done. Disconnect the phone, pull up the table in front of the TV, and watch as you eat. Eating alone can be so much fun!

"Tell me a story", demanded Rima after our Sunday meal. This was part of our sacred Sunday routine. Every Sunday, she visited us around eleven in the morning, dressed in a prim frock with her handkerchief folded in a triangle and clipped to her frock with a plastic strawberry clip. Despite having silky curly hair that flew in the wind and gave her a wild look, she was a very serious child. She was always scowling and pursing her mouth, as if to say, "Oh! I noticed that! That was a bad, bad thing to do!"

Rima was my niece. I loved her. At fifteen, an age when I hated everything and everybody, she was like my hope wrapped in a yellow fragrant light. Sometimes when I didn’t understand anything and sat in my corner crying and shivering, she came and stood by me quietly, pursing her lips and gently patting me on the back.

Anyways, I knew that I had to tell her a story. I even knew which story, it was the one I told her every Sunday! So I sighed and began.

"This is a story about a strawberry."

"Hahaha! Like the one on my frock?"

"Yes. Now listen quietly. This is a story about a strawberry. The strawberry was very pretty. She lived in Calcutta with her mother and father. She went to Calcutta Girls’ School."

"Oh my God! The strawberry is just like me!"

That was the other trick of telling her a story. There had to be gratifying references to her in nearly all the sentences. Only then would she certify it to be a good story.

"The strawberry had a grandmother who cooked very well. But she didn’t know how to make ice cream. This made the strawberry very sad, because she loved having ice cream. The grandmother couldn’t bear to see the strawberry so sad. So every Sunday she bought the strawberry some yummy ice cream. This made the strawberry very happy and she lived happily ever after."

"You know aunt, even I like ice cream."

"I know that."

"Will you buy me some ice cream in the evening?"

"I might buy you some ice cream if you sing for me now."

She didn’t need much coaxing. She loved to sing, or, what she thought was singing. Loudly and very off key, she started lisping all the hymns she was being taught at school. They went something like,

Milo loves me

(My Lord loves me)

His love nay yyy

(His love will never end)

And so on…

This used to be the brightest moment of my weekend. The joy and innocence in that little child’s voice filled the house and the neighborhood, and we all smiled from wherever we were- father in the garden, mother in the kitchen, neighbors in their balconies. If angels had an euphony, it would sound like this.

Many, many years have passed since then. Rima is nineteen now. She is a shy, quiet girl, and just about an average student at school. She sings very tunefully. She doesn’t have any nieces.

I  am thirty-one. I am scared of bringing up children, and don’t want any of my own. When I am with my friends’ children, I pet them abstractedly and shoo them away. The fierce, almost feral instinct of loving little children is gone. I don't miss it.

Sometimes I feel I could abnegate all the power in the world to get back the love and the idealism of my youth. But the next moment I smile and shake my head, for I know that that's not what I really want.

As he started to move the tanks of acid off the belt and towards the gigantic scale that weighed, sealed, and labeled the tanks, Bert felt the sharp pain of sadness in his ribs. It was occurring with increasing frequency now, but it still surprised him. He’d never been sad; he neither had the time nor mindset for it. He was “Big Bert” (even though his real name was Spiro). He was 6 feet tall and weighed 260 lbs and looked like James Hetfield. Like many other men who were overweight, he wore his obesity like a trophy. Indeed, his weight played a big part in the legend that was Big Bert. How he had dislodged the twin shaft mixer with his bare hands and rescued the cleaning boy on whom it had collapsed. How- despite being so fat- he could climb up the cooling towers quicker than men half his age. Stuff like that.

Big Bert’s life revolved around the product of the factory- sulfuric acid. He’d worked at the factory for the last 23 years and knew everything about the acid- chemical, physical, environmental, and commercial. In this corroded, sulfuric acid capital of the world, Big Bert stood out as the biggest of them all, the icon of continuity and the face of the industry. Competitors had long ago stopped trying to steal him. Instead, they had made peace with his employer and with Bert.

Anyways. The day was done. Bert made himself an Acid Rain and sat down at the window. The drink was his invention. He liked to mix them for children at barbecues and shock their parents with the name. As if everything to do with acids were dangerous. It was just mashed raspberries and strawberries and oranges in a minty, spicy, juice. He’d have liked to share the recipe with someone.

Bert looked out of the window. The pain was still there. The crickets in the cacti, the crooked horizon right behind the factory, and the little dots of stars in the sky, all acted as accomplice.

The seagulls wound out of the sea and took possession of an emergent moon. They were laughing at their sleeplessness. I stood immobile smelling their dripping salt water wings. I wanted to be a seagull. I wanted to drink the sea and leave a wet edge round the moon and be lulled to sleep by other chatty seagulls. My phobic stillness scared me. Long ago they had scared the seagulls too. That's when I had opened their cage and released them into the sea.