Sea of Hyphens

Wednesday, 26 July 2017

The first year in my hometown, a regular conversation starter would be, “Where are you from?” It naturally follows with a surprising look whenever I say, “ Well I am from here.”
“No where are you actually from.” This conversation is only justified until I say, “ Oh well I am an African –Indian.” Suddenly that explanation seems credulous, but to be frank, hyphenated- identities are the most confusing. If you pitched a tent on that hyphen, it would explain where an identity would belong, on a thin line.

Viva Vasarely

Saturday, 1 July 2017

He was mercurial, just like the furious flames of the stove. In a matter of explosive seconds, he upbraided me for being the worst waiter in the restaurant. Naturally, I was always caught loitering in the alleyways of the kitchen, which I presumably called Dante’s chamber. Hell was where he was, the rustic ovens, fiery copper pans and the grunts of enervated chefs. Purgatory was a small backyard cloaked in limp greyness, where the skittish chefs enjoyed their last puff of hope by the diminishing cigarettes. Many hoped to stay or get out of their job, and then came heaven, the patisserie room.