The husband who doesn't care. The wife who told a lie. The widow who eats alone. The mother who started from scratch. The father wracked with guilt. The girl who was abused. The woman who's husband strays. The silent sobs at night. The drugs to cut the pain. The alcohol to sterilise the wounds. The laughter to hide the tears. The bravery to cover the wretchedness.

it was getting dark. a familiar wave of unease swept through her gut. she thought maybe she needed to use the loo, but then it passed. as she looked out of the window, people were returning home. tired, defeated, carrying the burden of the day with them. she tried counting the exhausted shoulders that went by.
to her, their dispair was palpable.
jobs they didn't enjoy.
loans they couldn't pay.
homes they weren't proud of.
wives they has nothing to say to.
children who hadn't turned out like they imagined.
aged parents.
dreams that lay dusty and forgotten, locked in the battered aluminium trunks that they had packed when they left home all those years ago.

city life sucks.

the sighs behind the smile

the cry behind the laugh

the scream in your head

the tears you never shed

blah

The amusement park.

Bright lights. Happy colours. Joyous rides. Pink, sweet, sticky candy floss. The kind that lodges itself in your teeth and can be tasted hours later. Multicoloured balloons.
I want to go in and taste the madness. I want to laugh hysterically and run wildly from one crazy ride to another, undecided on what i like best. I want the wind in my hair and my stomach in my mouth.

But i something stops me. Something tells me this isn't any ordinary amusement park. Its the kind that sucks you in and leaves you craving for more. and more. If i go in, i may never want to come out again. And and something tells me, if i go in, i'll never be happy outside. again.

The Building AGM

In an unpainted room i didn't know existed, a broken tt table served as the chairmans desk. He was flanked by the secretary, a disgruntled mousey-looking man who used the opportunity to shout at all the neighbours he didn't like. Much like a batty school master, he wagged his finger and raised his voice. He seemed quite ready to throw people out of the class or send them into the corner till they learnt how to behave. On the chairmans right, sat a man who would periodically stand up and shout about how much research he had done into ganiteting/cementing/cable connections/water pipes.

I sat in the back with my brother and watched. this was definately better than reality tv.

if i wear the wrong contact lens in the wrong eye, will i be cross-eyed?

i'm fat and i banged my car.

:(

She walked down the parking lot, the tick-tock of her heels echoing loudly. Her hair was perfectly done, not a strand out of place. She wore a suit and pearl earrings, carried a file of important papers and a no nonsense attitude, and talked on her mobile phone officiously. Tock-tock-tock-tock went her shoes. Tock-tock-tock.
From the other end of the corridor, I half-ran towards my car, already late for a meeting. Fachak-fachack-fichak went my chappals, my hair flew wildly into my face, momentarily blinding me, my t-shirt rode up my growing midriff and my jeans felt too tight. I juggled with my bag, my water bottle, the car keys, my mobile phone, a large bundle of un-ironed dhobhi clothes and my nerves.

Waiting for the boat to take me across to the other side, i can't concentrate on my book so i glance at the people around me.

A page 3 wannbe, peering disdainfully through her large fake Chanel sunglasses, cursing her useless husband and wishing like hell that she owned one of those zippy little white speed boats. As the locals push past her with their hold-alls and gas cyclinders, she clutches her belongings a little bit tighter. I want to giggle at her discomfort, so i look away instead.

Across from me, sitting on the wall, a guy in white pants, chewing on a toothpick. He has on a thick gold chain, but the locket has disappeared into the thicket on his chest. From his pocket, he takes out a packet of gutka. He spits out his toothpick, empties the contents into his mouth and then causually throws it aside. I open my mouth to protest, to tell him to pick it up and throw it in the dustbin, but then decide against it. Why get into a conversation with him. He doesn't seem the decent type. As i look back at the packet, a wind catches it and takes it to the sea. As it floats, shiny and crude in the water, i get angry at myself for not having said anything.

A woman settles down on the steps beside me. She looks like a simple villager waiting to get back home. She seems to exude a deep sadness. I try to look at her eyes and all i see is a vague glazed look. In her hand is a crumpled piece of paper. As she sits there, waiting for the boat, she opens up the paper and then crumples it up again. In that quick second, i happen to glance at the paper. It says Child Adoption Centre. Now i feel bad for being so nosy.