I read this post by Priya and Charles about India, and as an Indian, I found it answers a lot of questions I get asked about my country. My answers are pretty similar. So, if anybody is curious about the fascinating land that is my country, I invite you to read INDIA: WALKING INTO THE JET AGE
Dona wonders why they never find out.
This girl sleeping in the afternoon on the sofa, for example, tired after her long train journey from Darjeeling to Mumbai. She sleeps wrapped in a red saree, a streak of vermillion in the parting of her hair, her small eyes closed, her face cradled in her left arm, her right arm dangling towards the floor, a dozen red glass bangles on her forearm. Her lips move as she dreams, of her new husband perhaps. She’ll never find out before it is too late.
Wild ways involving boys, men, dances all night, very little food and water, a lot of drugs and booze, migraines, dark lipstick, red-streaked hair, hangovers, piercings, fast cars, wind in her face. She wanted back those who-gives-a-shit-about-anything kind of days.
A writer’s life is often a series of droughts and floods. I’m waiting for another flood.
Quit swimming in the air, Kenny tells them, air is no place for fish.
But they refuse to listen.
During the day they forage amid the plants in their aquarium, driving him crazy most weeks because no sooner than he puts in a half-decent plant in their aquarium they set about ripping it apart. The Singapore Aquaria, set above the sparkling, man-made Sentosa beach, likes each of its aquariums to look as neat and well-groomed as Singapore parks, gardens, people and government. If Kenny, a Filipino, is to survive here he has to make sure the Blue Tialpia behave.
But the Tilapia do not know about the obsession for order that hovers about them.
Sometimes though, she wears all of the hats together, and that’s when she has the most fun, though neither them nor anyone else knows it. To shrill whistles and hoarse cat-calls, under flashing strobe lights, surrounded by stale perfume, cigar smoke, and beer fumes, Anna purls her much-insured body the color of midnight, that otherwise appears on screen in flashes, covered by iron-clad contracts.
While writing from a picture prompt, the character speaks for itself, its gecko-like tenacity on display. The writer disappears, as does the writing, only the voice of the character remains.