I remember a bright blue flying saucer, tilting this way and toppling that way between a cluster of shiny, soaring sky scrapers. I remember a cartoon appearing in a fountain, and it telling me ‘Sunshine was her name‘ and ‘friendship is my game‘. I remember seeing temples tucked in unlikely corners, spit-and-sawdust bars and drinking brightly coloured cocktails while fallen stars sank into the still waters of the quay. I remember my head sinking with disappointment after the first mouthful of my first meal and I remember it being so humid I’d wished I’d brought my armbands. I remember knowing I’d be back, and four years later, I am. Continue reading ‘Super Singapore’
As I sit and write, I am alone. Reb, the girl I’ve coined ‘my muse‘, my ‘garrulous pillion‘, my ‘ubiquitous sidekick‘, but never the truth - for literary mystery - my girlfriend, is gone. She sits in Singapore. I sit in India. Eight months prior, in China, we exchanged our preconceived views on those who fell into a relationship versus our destiny of travelling solo. We agreed they were foolish, that our trips were first and foremost and if we were to meet anyone they would have to fit like stray islands to our stubborn coastlines. We laughed, before taking a solitary moment to look at our reflections in the night bus window, to try and convince ourselves it’s how we really felt. The next three months, the kisses and telltale looks were under ‘Mission Secret Squirrel’, we cloaked the unthinkable from everyone - that we’d fallen for each other. After a six week goodbye, we accidentally-on-purpose found ourselves sharing Christmas together and the squirrel was demoted. We were a couple. We laughed at our Chinese prophecies, and I proudly held her hand in front of friends and family alike. Four months later I held the same hands, as they trembled. I kissed the moist, swollen pink lids of her eyes and broke my final promise. I looked back. Continue reading ‘My Muse’
One minute I turned the Enfield’s engine off to add to the silence of the moment an elephant and it’s baby heaved their shadows across the road, less than an hour later I was surrounded by a bus load of gibbering Indians, while to my side Reb lay on the dusty outer edge of a hairpin bend next to the spinning rear wheel of our stricken bike. One minute I was discussing Calvin Klein and Davidoff with a young Muslim, less than an hour later, without warning I was attacked from behind by a gibbering old man. One minute I’m flagged down by an ego-driven cop, less than an hour later I’m gibbering exaggerated scenarios at Reb, and we’re on the run. All this, in less than twenty-four hours. And twenty-fours before this? One minute I was staring Gandhi in the eyes, and less than an hour later I was discovering ancient hill tribes. Continue reading ‘Blue Jumper Story’
After a quick blood pressure test the gang of nurses rushed me to the surgery operating room. Pain was brandishing my neck and shoulder, a sickening sensation ten times greater than the height of ‘pins and needles’, when it really feels like your stricken limb might just implode. And you might just want it to. A nun entered the room and cast me her gentle look, that only she was capable of. I grimaced back and as she glided silently backwards I turned my gaze to the floor. A moment later, Elvis entered the room and as quickly as he appeared, Elvis - predictably - left the building. He returned five minutes later, still balancing a thick polyester wig, aviator sunglasses and an open pink Versace shirt revealing his wiry black chest hair. He inquired about my symptoms though quite obviously only took note of key words; neck, pain, happened 10 days ago, agony, euthanasia? ‘Cervical Scoliosis‘, he claimed confidently, ‘you want pill?‘ A nurse reappeared, glared at me and held out her pale palm where two nondescript pills gently wobbled. ‘What is it?‘ I stammered, ‘complicated‘ replied the doc with a sigh that saw the pills inhaled. He followed on ‘you want injection?‘. My eyebrows went skeewiff, ‘what’s it for?‘ I asked. He feigned understanding but later admitted to Reb it was ‘for his disease‘. Moments later the nurse rolled me over and jabbed a needle so deep into my backside, it would ache for weeks. Next came the x-ray, the offer of a wheelchair and an exhausted kip on the surgery bed. Continue reading ‘Heartbreak Hotel’
As we spluttered to a stop, I never imagined that fifteen frustrating minutes later we’d be buying a bottle of petrol from a man who at first glance, only peddled tyres. As we pulled the bike over to inhale a glorious vista, I never imagined two seconds later the Enfield would forcibly lay down, casting my pillion and I into a fumbled knot. As we realised my pillion had lost my beloved sunglasses, I never imagined just ten minutes into silently retracing our route a poor village man would return them, without mention of a rupee or reward. When we ran out of fuel, the second time, I never imagined the number of no-strings offers of rest and solutions from concerned strangers I heaved my sweating brow by. As we agreed the rate of yet-another-hotel, I never imagined a boy of seven would appear to tell us to ‘have nice dreams‘ in his tiny poppy English. The bottom line is, on returning to India, I never imagined the people to be so far from my Indian truth. Continue reading ‘My Indian Truth’
As she slips her sleek leg out and plants her silver heel into the ground, I step back and roll her around in my mind. She’s young, yet something tells me she’s over innocence. She’s naughty, but nice and full of splendid, sexy spice. She could satisfy my every need. I can tell she’s from a good family, but with it she’s modest and I long for her. Around her neck she wears a necklace of pale flowers and elsewhere just the slightest hints of makeup. Sunshine soaks into her black curving body, but it’s the stylish silver number that draws me in. I drag my fingers up her arm to align our rhythm before slipping my leg over her arching body. Then I start to turn her on, with a subtle flicking of my thumb. I slip protection on and as I ride her, hard, my head’s thrown back in ecstasy and I clench her body tightly with my thighs. I have control, slowing down to hear her purring urges before I wind her up and make her scream with pleasure. ‘Thank you‘, I sigh, she silently stares back at me. I know what she’s thinking. Again? Continue reading ‘A Royal Return’
Ding ding. Honk honk. My ears are being drilled with the blaring high notes of Hindi-pop. Ding ding, we stop. Rev rev, we’re off. Honk honk. We swerve through a checkpoint chicane, passed sandbag retreats holding tin camouflage roofs, we skim a stack of khaki patched tyres, it’s insides filled with soil and it’s top speckled with a circle of bright pink flowers. Ding ding. Honk honk. Rev rev. Passed camps of dull mud huts, with dusty yards and grey palm roofs. The victims: caught in the economic crossfire. Honk honk. We stop. Everybody off! Not I, the tourist. Not women, nor children. Rev rev, all aboard, we’re off. Honk honk. The driver’s face is framed by the reverberating rear view mirror, his expression reflecting the air of tension I’m breathing in. Honk honk. One side lays the ‘terrorist’. The other, the ‘terrorised’. Hindi-pop now screwing my eyes, my ears, my brain. The driver’s cockpit a rare theme of atheism, not Ganesh nor Lakshmi. If this bus should blow up, the tragedy would chew up these men in shirts and sarongs, these women in their elegant saris and neatly plaited hair, their uniformed children in once-white shirts and bright blue shorts, the bearded and bald, the baggy and brawn. From the gold and silver, the flecks of grey, blinking brown and pretty-in-pink we would be left with black. A sooty scar between the razor-wire, chicanes and military debris. But lest we not think of this, ding ding, we’re off, rev rev, honk honk. Continue reading ‘So Long, Ceylon’
