Gypsy Masala. Preethi Nair

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ further contemplated how I had managed to conceive a baby Jesus who was not of ethnic origin.

      I took that plastic baby Jesus in hand and threw him into the audience where my Auntie Sheila was sitting. She shared their stern, dismayed looks. It was then I knew that things were going to be difficult.

      Not that things prior to that incident had not been difficult. Having lost my own parents in an accident, a long, dusty road had led me to the doorstep of the Vishavans. I’m not too sure about the details of how I arrived there but it was my Auntie Sheila and my Uncle Bali who brought me up. They were a very practical couple and veering away from the realms of reality into flights of imagination was strictly prohibited. The consequences were dire: at best there would be stern looks of disapproval from my Auntie Sheila, and at worst the fear of further abandonment forever loomed around me.

      So, like one of those little messages, I have managed to make myself fit into a bottle and have bobbed up and down for a long time now on the crest of other people’s expectations. Desperately yearning for the bottle to break but not quite sure what I’ll do if it does.

      Tired of summoning up the courage to try and make my great escape, I closed my eyes on that Sunday evening and fell into a deep sleep. I can’t quite recollect the whole dream but I remember fragments of it, such as embarking on a journey and seeing different people with what looked like huge coals inside of them. These coals were lit by their dreams, their hopes and expectations, and their eyes either glowed or were dull and listless. Someone, I think it was a woman, approached me and asked me what my dream was, and just as I was about to answer I was awoken by the very faint sound of a drum. And then, as my eyes half-opened, I caught a glimpse of a little African figure dancing across my room. He jumped out of my bedroom window.

      ‘Come follow me,’ he whispered.

      Deeply regretting downing half a bottle of brandy the night before to anaesthetise my throat, I dragged myself up, vowing to get a firm grip on reality.

      ‘Come follow me,’ I heard the voice whisper again.

      I know that this is what I heard clearly, but fearing insanity I quickly turned on the radio and made my way into the shower.

      

      It was freezing that Monday morning. I was on the Underground going to work, heading towards Baker Street, willing there to be no further delays due to the forecasted snow falling on the tracks. Luckily, because I had left earlier than usual, the carriages were not as jam-packed as they could have been.

      To my right, a couple were seated. He, in his mid-thirties, attempted to read the newspaper, and she, clinging on to his arm, evaporated into him. Not far from them was a man with a beard and a huge coffee-coloured mac and opposite me sat a dark-skinned woman dressed in fine magenta, wearing numerous gold bracelets. I thought not only must she be cold but also brave for exposing them like that, but judging from her attire I figured she must have come from afar and not been aware of the concept of muggings, or snow for that matter. She appeared totally misplaced, sitting amongst all the people in their grey suits. Finding her a strange curiosity, I studied her even more closely. Her eyes looked like still puddles; I could see myself in them. No one I’d ever met had eyes like that. She must have come from a faraway island and been a princess or something. The princess, though, had chipped nail-varnish.

      As I looked at her nails and contrasted them to her whole demeanour, it reminded me of the fact that perfection does not exist – everyone has something missing. It was probably best to see things as imperfect, to have no expectations so that things could not come crashing down. This is what my Auntie Sheila had endeavoured to teach me. But why was it that I was incapable of doing this? Perhaps because I am a dreamer; I dream of infinite possibilities because there must be more to life than just this.

      Passengers got on at Finchley Road and hunted for space in the carriage. As one of the commuters sat on the end of the bearded man’s mac he huffed in an irritated manner and then shuffled along his seat and sprawled his newspaper across his lap. He then emitted a defiant ‘tut’ as the coat-creaser began freely reading his paper. Being on the Underground in some way seemed to incite the most rodent-type behaviour. People become incredibly predatory over their space. Maybe it is because they want to feel safe and secure.

      Perhaps there is no real security or safety, just a perceived sense of one. Things happen from out of the blue that you cannot account for, random acts of fate. In my case it was my parents dying, so I think it’s pointless trying to control things. This is what I believe deep down inside but this is not how I act; possibly because I don’t want to hurt my Auntie Sheila and my Uncle Bali by going against everything they have tried to instil in me, or maybe this is just my excuse. So I remain cosseted in the life that they have given me, not venturing out of all that I know, except, that is, in the world of my imagination.

      I scrutinised the face of the man who huffed and tutted: he looked unhappy. The crumpled end of a coat is not worth that amount of unhappiness. As I sat watching all the different types of people and imagined what their lives were like, I wondered if they were happy, truly happy, and enjoyed what they did; or did they share the same feelings of frustration as me and just waited for their Christmas bonus and then made a whole load of resolutions in the New Year which they knew they would never keep. My Uncle Bali always told me that life wasn’t about being happy, it was about getting a stable routine so that you could be buffered by life’s disappointments. Just as I was thinking this, I remembered more of the dream about the coals. I searched people’s eyes to see if they had realised their dreams or whether they were riding the same beaten track as I was because they were afraid – afraid to do something bold, something different; afraid of disappointing others.

      The lady to my right who formed part of the couple had eyes that were completely glazed over. Somehow she had managed to surrender herself to a pair of black stilettos, she squeezed herself into them so that the fragile heels supported the weight of eighty kilos. What did this tall, mousy-blond gentleman have that made her surrender herself not only to her shoes? This wasn’t right either, putting all your hopes and expectations into one person – I had done this too. It had ended disastrously, in fact just last week. I was supposed to be getting married until I caught him with his fingers in the locks of a curly brunette.

      ‘Will you give me a ring then at lunchtime and tell me how we’ll arrange it?’ stiletto lady asked.

      The word ‘yes’ was followed by the word ‘darling’. It sounded as if the passion with which he had first spoken those words had ebbed, leaving the sound of hollow letters that made an empty phrase. Does the passion wane in all relationships after a time?

      ‘Shall we get in some of those dips and some bites?’ the stiletto lady said, attempting to resuscitate his words.

      Mr Mousy continued to read his FT. ‘Hmmmm…’ he mumbled.

      ‘And a bottle of red,’ she continued.

      ‘Hmmmmm.’

      The art of communication was not one of his stronger points. That was what probably attracted her to him in the first instance, hoping that she could change that. Her friends had probably told her not to settle for less, to leave him, that there were plenty more mousies out there in the big blue sea, but this just strengthened her conviction and made her cling to him tighter. Her coals were probably kept alight by the thought of being with him.

      And then amongst the group of random strangers in that tube carriage, there was me. My real name is Molu: Molu Vishavan. I’m twenty-seven years old. I used to be a Cancerian but on arriving at my Auntie Sheila’s house she changed my birthday so I am now a Scorpio. I have had two failed serious relationships, one near-miss at marriage, and I still live at home with СКАЧАТЬ