Carolime Time

The trains are each arriving,
one by one, they part ways with my eyes,
we drag them along not looking too far,
I wait for the smoke and I watch for the grind,
I expect a stop and sudden halt,
I wonder who it is this time
and if they’ll write about it in the news,
but they never really do,
so I’ll make faces at those who pass
and never know where they’ll arrive,
I brush shoulders with zombies
and it’s a circle of retreat,
they each come back
to be consumed by time
and make the same rounds.
An officer dives and I realize
the rest of us have survived,
while he’s watched our demise,
day by day he stands there,
pushing us along,
sometimes jamming us in so tight
that we can smell each others breakfast,
other times muttering things over airwaves,
knowing none of us listen, sure that none of us can hear,
they could tell me I’m going to come back to life
if I leave
and I wouldn’t bat an ear.
are you singing us your death song, sir?
what’s that you said? i didn’t quite hear
We each crunch pages
and grunt at the slightest touch,
narrowed looks of disdain
mark our way,
don’t stop walking, don’t stop walking,
if you dare I’ll shake my head and drop a groan.
I’m walking too close to the edge of the tracks,
I wonder if today I’ll fall
and if so, who’s going to take the blame,
there are too many people.
So I stand as close as possible and think,
maybe today’s the day,
but once again that swift breeze comes
and catches me offguard, so that my fair hair
brushes my face
and my eyes close,
till the doors open
and I’ve entered the world.

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I saw a note from Barbara Julian, reviewing the workmanship of Charlotte Gill… I believe this is an accurate framing of a good short story..
“I have a fancy that characters in short stories really want to be in novels. After all, the novel is a larger canvas and everyone wants a big life, fictional people as well as real. I suppose this is another way of saying that if characters and their stories are engaging the reader wants to read on to the next chapter and the next-wants a whole novel. If they are not engaging the story was a failure; either way it is hard for a short story to be enough in itself, and it takes a real master to give it a conclusive, satisfying totality.
It is not enough to peep through a window on characters engaged in a random series of actions, before they happen to shut the curtain or wander out of view. A short story is not a fragment or a snapshot. “Short” means told economically, not cut off, and “story” suggests an unfolding, a process, requiring the time-honoured structure of conflict, climax and denouement. The short story, like its ancestors the fable and the parable, uses the same devices as a long story-a novel-but without the luxury of discursively sprawling into all sorts of beckoning highways and byways. Choosing to write the short rather than long form of fiction means choosing precision over expansiveness.”

This is not to say one is better than the other, though. Her first line may suggest such a thing, but I believe precision is the technique of some, and expansiveness the weapon of others.

I think I prefer short stories to novels. But I’ve spent the past year trying to read novels and completing around 6 full lengths.  I can spend the next 2 mos reading the two novels I’m reading right now (yes, I even practice polyamory in my reading habits) or move to better things. I have half a mind to buy this “Ladykiller” compilation by Charlotte Gill. Maybe I will!!! I bought some really stupid books recently which I meant to give as a gift to a friend (a joke gift), but I came up with something better (pitched in on a voice recorder)

I’m blabbering now..sigh

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I really didn’t expect to like Las Vegas. Sin City, “Whatever Happens in Vegas…”, “Vegas Baby”
really aren’t the sort of things that typically woo me. I was expecting a dirtier Dubai, something akin to Amsterdam on ecstasy.
But I think it’s the people here that have captivated me. They’re all really crazy, freespirited, ruthless and charming. They talk the talk and walk the walk, everyone knows ’someone’ who knows someone. They’re not moved by celebrities, and they talk to anyone that speaks their language. Oh and what a language it is. Filled with dollar signs, nods, and concealed handshakes.

Poolside at the Mirage, “Pool Bare”, I watch a girl prance around in a sparkly bikini, popping her foot in the air behind her and laughing at something a friend says a few feet  away. She glances around her mischievously, and checks to see if anyone is watching. Of course, someone is always observing, besides me. Behind her, a woman sits with a group of men and fondles her visibly hard, rock solid breasts while sipping on a mojito. My friend and I exchange a glance of certainty on the question of implants. She is the only topless woman at the pool, which welcomes nudity, and I am the only one in shorts and a t-shirt. We all do something to stand out. The sun is beating down on us, and the DJ plays on behind me. The transitions are smooth, I’m loving every song as he spins Red Hot Chilli Peppers mixed with Kaskade and the guy across from me flexes his chest muscles to the bass, hiding behind his sunglasses with a smirk.

This is Las Vegas, where anything goes, and where glamorous movies find their muse. Every conversation is laced with inflated status, and nothing is offered for free or out of the goodness of ones heart. The warm, inviting promoters get $50 a head for each person they bring into the club, and they shamelessly request your phone number after looking you up and down without noticing you. Thinking that they way to your heart is through flattery, they spin words around your head, perhaps dazzling you on the first night…but that’s why you need to stay in Vegas about 5 nights. Everyone says, leave after 3 nights. I suggest 5 nights–the 4th night, you meet the people you’ve only introduced to. The 5th night, you digest.

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I was sitting at the corner of Queen and Yonge today waiting for Mutton to meet me for dinner..it was rush hour, everyone was leaving work and I was reading the paper on a bench. Truthfully, I couldn’t concentrate, as there were too many fashionable clacking heels passing amidst the streetcars and out-of-place bicycles. I need to take notes on what’s in! Not to mention I was wearing sunglasses and I’ve not grown accustomed to the accessory, let alone a dark shadow on my print.

For those who aren’t familiar with this hood, it’s a bit of a crossroads. Walk a little north, and you hit Toronto’s attempt at Times Square–Dundas Square, where flashing lights and fountains run the show. This is also where the main downtown mall is situated, the Eaton Centre.
Take a stroll a bit south, and you’ll hit the financial district, where Blackberrys and speed-walking mark the territory. You’ll also cross paths with some young lawyers and old ones that will swallow you with their eyes.
East and west are a little trendier, but haven’t formed enough of a consistent identity for me to comment on, or rather, are in such transition these days that labels such as ‘vintage’, ‘boho’, and ‘yuppy’ would not suffice.

I noticed these two women stop beside me. One was in her mid 50s and the other was in her 20s probably. They didn’t look at me, even though I was yakking away on my phone about all the hot suits that work in my building. Not that my conversations are so important they should eavesdrop, but I was sitting right beside them. They didn’t really talk to each other, and I figured they were taking a rest from shopping, or working. I went on with my mundane chatter, and a friend I hadn’t seen in about 3years happened to recognize me, even incognito in sunglasses and prep wear.

The friend and I reunited, chatting for a short bit about what we’d been up to and how our lives are progressing. We were distracted, with him noticeably pacing at the thought of his departing train and myself, wondering where the hell Mutton was and when I’d be eating.

As D turned to leave, I glanced to my right and saw that these two women were sitting cross-legged at the core of the city, with eyes closed and fingers poised, pressed together in the direction of the sky. I was stunned. I hadn’t even noticed them. Their expressions were blank, but full. They were withdrawn, but present. I am convinced they were in a space so quiet that no one could wake them until the time was right. Theirs was a peace I don’t envy, but would rather achieve, master, and recreate.

Mind you, theirs wasn’t the attention-grabbing religious activist sort of prayer. It was private, not shy but natural.

If two people can sit with traffic blaring,
honking,
lights,
cell phones,
smog,
talking,
screeching,
laughing,
the brush of bodies on the street,
the groan of trucks and transit system
under their feet…

Then there is little we can denounce in faith of the purest kind, and sincerity of the most congested mind.

I was stilled. Quiet, so quiet I wouldn’t dare speak in their presence. I had to walk away to exhale, and I had to lower my voice to a hush as I told my boyfriend what I’d just witnessed and not been able to take part in. In fact, I couldn’t even tell him the details as I was afraid of breaking the spell. I didn’t watch them, I only saw them.

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i’m fairly smitten with milan kundera. i am not smitten by him the way i have been caught up in a fine balance, or shantaram, nor the way i whizzed through jhumpa lahiri and unaccustomed earth..they’ve got nothing on him. i wouldn’t say i’m drawn to him the way i was intrigued by gabriel garcia and immediate host to gallons of respect for his compassion.

i would compare my reaction to kundera’s ‘immortality’ to the same weak-in-the-knees, to-be-left-alone shyness, willingness, and vulnerability i sensed in myself when reading the ‘intimacy’ compilation by sartre. elements of my short but intense relationship with ‘wicked’ by gregory mcguire….quick but never forgotten and forever touched upon in a positive light. triggers to my growth and dog-eared pages of notable points in my book-reading career. no, it’s hard to fall in love..and it happens so rarely that when you’re in it, you don’t want it to end, even though it must. i’m not the sort that wants to read book after book of one author after i fall in love with the first. i would hate to compare one with the other. but i am a slow reader when i sense an immediate connection. i want to write down everything they say, i take pauses and savour the words, the structure of thoughts and the immensity of what my lover is saying. i re-read sections within minutes, touching upon them over and over again. sometimes, when i am with a mortal lover that i can’t get enough of, i write down the things they say on a napkin beside the bed. but with a book, you can turn the page back, and no one will know you’re so love-struck. it’s all between the pages.

why do i feel so strongly about some books, and not others? i could quote kundera and support my statements..but i think it is that i see elements of myself manifested in the thoughts of these writers..that they could see right through me, and humans in general, is so profound that i believe them to be demi-gods.

so why would i read them slowly, and why would i not race to read their next book? i think love, when it nears its end, is the sweetest tragedy. best contained in its past. to read another book by the same person, with a completely different goal, time, place..could lead to a complete disconnect that may dissolve all previous . the same person i was in love with a year and a half ago is my friend today, and will never be my lover again. the person/book/place you fall in love with can come at the right time, fitting into you perfectly and clicking in place. sometimes you carry on this romance until it ripens into a sweet forever. but a lot of the time, relationships are meant to stay in their place. a book does not change with time, as people are so prone to doing.

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left bombay, i’m in sharjah now..
spent 3hrs in a cab this morning going home..the streets are flooded..roads to sharjah are closed off, it’s been pouring here..yeah it rains in the desert:P our van was up to its neck in water!!! i went to sleep, though..poor driver..i felt sorta bad making him drive me through, but where was i supposed to go with three suitcases???

didn’t sleep all night..
got woken up here to run an errand…
uh..found myself jumping out of the car into the flood..one of the nastiest things i’ve ever had to do..and i do a lot of nasty things…i yelped with every hop to the sidewalk..i was calf deep in filthy water..just imagining what that water has cleaned off the ground..my god..i like lakes, i’ll jump in puddles. but man….that water was grey and there was stuff floating around in it..and then there was me, in it…putting my slimy feet into my shoes and sloshing into those offices was not a pleasant feeling..that’s my high maintenance comment for the day..

oh and i also don’t know how i feel about first class/business class/economy divisions on airplanes..i hate the dynamics..this comes back to my struggles with flying/trains/buses when traveling domestic..
each time i go to an airport, though, i die a little bit more..
i have learned to charm the airline people..i was 14kg overweight..and they helped me out a bit..the key is not to be a bitch..and be sure to talk to the ladies working at the airline..women actually have all the pull in this world;) flirting will not get you anywhere in this case..though, feel free to be pretty or sweet…allow for a little bit of the damsel in distress..
i am back in toronto january 21st..i don’t think i will travel again for a long time. only because i have so much on my mind right now! and we found an apartment! YAY..

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so it’s saturday…story time..
some of the things i’ve been doing here?
well..i’ve gone to town a few times on my own, by train..
i’ve gone to a few of the clubs here in bandra, with my cousin and some random friends through the fam..
done a lot of eating..hit up the best restaurants, apparently? everything tastes good to me, here
done a shitload of shopping..(NO MORRRRRRE SHOPPPPPPPING!!!!)
walked A LOT through the bandra west area..and taken lots of rickshaws..
i’ve hung out at the worli seaface, carter road, and chilled on the queen’s neckline, just about where her necklace hits the nape…
taken a bunch of drives through the night, past the gateway (which is under construction), malabar hill “the most poshy poshy” hood in mumbai..st michael’s church..
visited a lot of bathrooms, including those on the way to goa..had a bit of a shocking run in with a man in a bathroom on the way to goa..but ask me about that in private..
i’ve been tempted to flirt with the hijras..really really tempted..but i’m afraid they’ll punk me…some of them are SO FREAKIN PRETTY…and hot….slim arms (something i’m not blessed with), shapely or svelte in figure, naughty smiles, perfect makeup…dressed in fashionable salwar kamis or saris..devilish, carved eye brows…i’m attracted…so delicate, and lovely….
btw, hijras..for those who don’t know..are the eunuchs..’the third sex’..either with ambiguous genitalia, male genitalia, or sometimes castrated..they take on the female gender role and presentation, though..sigh..

after my first run in with the hijras, i raced home and looked them up online, a little thirsty for stories from others on their run-ins…one man tells a journalist of how he was put into some cult-like foresty environment,drugged, and taken advantage of…oooooh…umm creepy, but who knows if it’s true..
the first run in was on the train going to town..
the hijras were on the train to town asking for money..they were clapping in front of this one girl’s face, trying to get her attention and asking for money..she wouldn’t give them money..and then they pushed her head and she pushed their hands away..and they kept clapping..i was a little appalled, wondering what else they would do besides push her head..they slapped her, next!!
sitting across from her, i was like, ahhhhhhh pleeeease don’t come to me!! (saying this to myself, in my head)..i quickly concocted a plan..
in toronto, i sometimes make ugly faces on the late trains so people don’t pay attention to me..to the point that i am so repulsive that they can’t look at me..these are very natural ugly faces, mind you..
so in this case, i just looked back in a daze when they approached me..i was kinda scared..could they tell?….it’s very easy to give yourself a blank and vapid look..empty the eyes and stare back..they asked, and clapped..and i just stared back…little did they know, i was sorta shivering..a catch in my lungs..they left me alone;)
the other night, i was at one of the seafaces..there are so many here, i love it..a friday night can just be spent walking beside the water:)…and that’s enough..anyway these two lovely lasses came up to us..white salwars..and they kept giggling with each other…flirting with each other? i wanted to get in on it..they were holding hands, calling my friend salman khan and me aishwarya haha trying to charm their way into our pockets..i wanted to give them 100rps right there and then! but no, can’t..i wish they’d stayed a little longer..

sigh..

anyway yeah apparently the hijras are invited to weddings cause apparently they’re good luck..or it’s just bad luck to mess with them..they can curse you..sometimes they come uninvited and ask for money..and you have to give it out of fear of them cursing you..but there are generally no negative stories regarding them..

i’ve also been to some of the clubs and little restaurants here..there are definitely some cute places here…i wouldn’t mind living in mumbai, so long as it’s not out of a suitcase. hmmmmmm…and don’t get me started on how hot some of the guys are..! i still haven’t decided whether i think the indian girls are more attractive here or in canada..the hijras here are definitely pretty;)

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ok ok i’ve been meaning to tell you about this..
from my cousins’ house, in the centre of bandra “the queen of the suburbs”, i hear a ZiLlIoN sounds..i smell a zillion more other things, but maaaan..
so i’m going to come back here everytime i smell or hear something new..

just now, i heard a man scrape the back of his throat..i CRINGE when i hear this sound. really, i can’t even hear someone doing it if they’re in the privacy of their own bathroom. it’s just one of those things, i think. it’s basically when someone presses the back of their tongue to the roof of their mouth, in an effort to SCOUR the mouth of..phlegm? saliva? ahh i’m so bad with bodily functions, i can’t even say more at this point. this is a personal habit i can never grow accustomed to, much licking ones fingers is unacceptable. needless to say, a second date does not follow;)

last night, i jumped out of bed in the throes of my insomnia..and i watched a cat limp across the courtyard, moaning. i had just played ear-witness to a cat scramble. it lasted a good ten minutes, with all sorts of foreign gurgles and shrieks…entertaining, at that hour.

in the morning, i can wake up and hear all the ‘wallas’ on the street…people walking around selling…whatever it is they sell..flowers, paan, little christmas toys..if u can find something to sell, sell it..
sitting on the terrace at my cousins’ , i’ll hear kitchens clinking with metal serving dishes, and i’ll smell the preparation for tonight’s meal..spices and the frying of masalas wafting through the air..perhaps it’s the closeness of the buildings, or the bustle of every room that makes everything feel so in reach..i think new york and mumbai must have late night trysts in some starry galaxy, cause apparently neither of them sleep….

the streets here are abuzz with the hum of construction…these songs of drills and clattering steel are almost a testament to mumbai’s growth..slowly, but surely, is how i see it so far. it’s not like dubai, too big for its britches, where cranes make up the skyline..or maybe mumbai’s just bigger and it looks more subtle for that reason..i obviously do prefer mumbai to dubai–though i do like sharjah and it would be a close competition..

as for smells, yesterday i got lost. i figure, the only way to find my way is by getting lost. i did have a problem though, as i kept coming upon the people who don’t speak english. i wasn’t desperate, but i found myself walking into dark streets with few people in them..haha..it was about 7pm..i figure my cousin has planned way too much for me to show up a bruised and black-eyed bridesmaid, so i shouldn’t get into any trouble yet..anyhow, there was this one point on the street where i walked past about 5 smells..roasting nuts on one cart, burning incense in a stall lit by a single candle, glistening and sizzling onions in the next, rotting fruit in the space in between, only to be followed up by a fresh fruit stand..where i asked, ‘waterfield rd?’ and received the response, ‘eh?’ ‘ennnh?’..
ahhhhh

btw, i don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it seems that the more money i make, the more i hate shopping..i hate it..i do love bargaining, though;) and i’ve posted a note on that thread in my other journal..

i’ve been writing some scraps on my comp, but it’s all very scattered..i’m pasting it in my LJ if anyone wants to read it (as some people have said they wanna know the gossip on my travels)-/\(:)

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alright, so i’m in sharjah, u.a.e…
just got back from 2.5hrs at the salon..tiring..can you believe i walked barefoot on the street because i forgot to wear sandals for my pedicure? mind you, it was only a few steps and then i hopped into a car, but..i would never dare tell my mom, and definitely not my brother!!! so i’ll just tell facebook..yesterday, my bro wouldn’t even let me lean against a wall because he was sure i’d get dirty…(i did it anyway, and i did get dirty)..dirty dirty rubbish she she.

I have a revived appreciation for food today, triggered by my lunch feast..i just had the YUMMIEST fish curry…i think there’s a reason the food here has been tasting so good, besides the fact that i’ve left behind a dark existence in toronto..
see, i can get away with eating with my hands here. i can’t, so much, back in toronto. my parents just won’t have it. i mean, sometimes i can ask permission at home and do it, or if they’re not around, i’ll sneak a few bites with my hand and think myself clever. but really, i’m just a coward.

i remember in our first year of university, in the first couple of months, tania and i sat down and ate with our hands. it was such a glorious thing. she mastered it, and soon we were making chicken curry and salty vegetable medleys..

i think eating with your hands is a skill you can really show off. i know, it may sound gross, but that’s only if you don’t wash your hands!! it’s a matter of grasping a mouthsize morsel with just the right pressure, and gathering just enough so that it doesn’t slip out of your fingers. this method of eating also taught me to choose wisely for each bite. it’s necessary to include the perfect amount of rice, vegetable, and, if available, papadam..for those who aren’t familiar with papad, it’s this crispy sorta fried chip. oh, and if you’re non-veg, you must of course include a smaller chunk of meat. but that’s just my approach..everyone has a different way of eating. my mom, for instance, hates to mix her food up..
speaking of my mom..nothing tastes better than skin and food. especially your mom’s skin. and i’m not trying to a make a ‘your momma’ joke. seriously, you love your mom (i love your mom), and she really knows how to feed you. when i was young, i used to leave my plate behind and just eat out of my mom’s, simply because i knew she’d feed me with her hand. to this day, if i can finagle a hand feed from her, i will take it!!! it’s been awhile, though..i am running out of excuses..

i must say, i’ve always been a little unsure of the class and social implications of eating with my hands. i can’t tell if it is the Catholic Indians who think they’re too good to eat with their hands, or the Westernized Indians in general, or what..i mean, can i go to a party and eat with my hands? I don’t know if I would..it’s a long walk to the bathroom when there’s dahl dripping down my arm and onto my dress..

see, when i was in india two years ago, we had a bit of a fiasco..perhaps a culture clash..the Indians from the West could not fathom eating with their hands, and demanded utensils.. the locals were unaware that we had such needs..but why would they be? we were from their country originally, no? i mean, the “Indians from the West”, fully knew how to eat with their hands from their childhood..so why didn’t they? It’s because, in public, they just can’t do it. It can’t be done, it’s unheard of! I’m sure the Goans and Anglo Indians know what I’m talking about..anyhow, we got spoons and forks i think..

This past October, I was hanging out with a South Indian (Tamil) film crew in Scarborough…this was a team of about a dozen people visiting from India..They were here a month, and I had a role in this film..I’ll post publicity stills later..it’s called Arasangam..anyhow, each day, they’d have the lunches and meals catered by local South Asian restaurants. On location outside a hotel, they pulled out trays of food…an array of tandoori chicken, white rice, samba, and chicken curry was spread out on a table..In search of a spoon, I noticed there was none. Okay, I thought, cool, and I scooped rice from the tray with a broken piece of styrofoam plate. I used the same foam to lift chicken curry into my plate, and poured the samba on top of this whole plate. Yea, I like to mix.
Next I searched for a spoon and fork…none..the only non-Indian person on the team, who was hired in Toronto, glanced at me sympathetically…he’d ordered a sandwich from the hotel, he just couldn’t take the South Indian spice, he admitted:P..anyway, there were a lot of non-Indians around who were staying at the hotel…and I guess I could’ve gone upstairs and grabbed a fork and spoon..but…I didn’t….I sat down, and i dug in. oh yea, and it was gooood. I called my mom immediately after, with my hands still sticky from samba..”guess what i just did, mom…oh yea, in public…” ….I remember pulling the phone away from my ear and finding an oily film on it where my hand had been.

The fact of the matter is, we don’t need forks and spoons. We always have our hands. Same with lovers..we don’t need them..for the same reason. Tee hee…

Who wants to borrow my phone now?

{post disclaimer: i am working on getting a life beyond writing, hopefully once i get it i’ll be too cool to write about it}

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i really don’t get why everyone at the canadian passport offices and indian consulate have something stuck up their asses. is it the same object? is it sharp? do they have it inserted daily or is it placed there for the whole working period, when they first get the job?
cause really, they don’t even proffer a smile, let alone any semblance of amiability…

yesterday, i walked in and the guy at the front info counter for the indian consulate didn’t even crack a smile. he just pointed in the direction of the other crazy man, who was yelling things in hindi and walking away from everyone mid-conversation..for some reason, this man decided to give me the time of day and talk to me, understandably saying things extra loud so he wouldn’t have to explain them again to the crowds of people surrounding him trying to grab his attention..

i recall visiting the canadian gov. offices in whitby last month to get my passport renewed..the info desk guy just looked at me sternly, as though expecting the worst from me before anything..maybe i look scared, yes i tend to have the look of a deer in the headlights but geeezzz at least be nice enough to accommodate my fear, and i think it’s a rightful fear considering i always feel like i’m about to get slapped on the palm by a nun with a thin reed stick..ARGH

today i went back to the indian consulate..i passed the man from yesterday, at the front desk..he recognized me, i am sure. i gave him a big perky smile and said, HOW ARE YOU?
and he said, no, go out. and i said, huh?
apparently, my tea wasn’t allowed in there. and they say tea is a leading indian export..he didn’t look at me when i re-entered a second later, empty-handed. ugh!

i swear, i felt like i was in the pages of a couple of books i’ve read..one, ‘trespassing’ (uzma aslam khan) , was based on Pakistan and had a scene of complete and utter disorganization over water shortages..where a character would spend the whole day in line waiting to collect a ration for water..and get to the front of the line only to be told the office is closed for the day, or that they are missing the TINIEST thing–which means they have to come back the next day…it’s a woman-in-waiting’s worst nightmare!
right now, in shantaram, the character is in a train..the rush for the train in this instance really takes the shape of Darwin’s survival of the fittest..it literally is every man for himself..it’s ruthless, as we all trample each other to get noticed and get what we’re all sure we deserve..
i felt that way today! there are few smiles in the room (which can fit max 151 people), and everyone stands in line, a little weary of what the main guy will say..he could pass us on to the visa/passport officers, or he could tell us something is missing..i tap my foot, while others avoid eye contact..finally, i get approval. he doesn’t smile at me..do i smell??

i sit down. i’m breathing fine, and so is everyone seated around me. like shantaram, this is when everyone relaxes and resumes their indian politeness. in the book, knees bump lightly and apologies are in abundance. the sikh man behind me lets me use his pen and offers me his thick envelope to write on (yea, that’s right, i didn’t fill out my forms completely!)

i get to the actual visa lady. she hates me. i just know it. i came forward when my number was called and she told me to wait. i wait and then she beckons me forward. she has a stapler in front of her and makes me walk to the back of the room to use the communal stapler. i bow my head in shame as i pass 100 people awaiting their doom. they all hear my boots clacking and wonder why i got sent to the back of the room, i return, and she does everything possible to sustain her exasperation with me..i forgot to put my signature. I FORGOT!!!!! i apologize, and try to show her how sincere i am. i REALLY wanted someone in that room today to accept me. i ask her if i can borrow her pen to sign my signature..

and so, i will return at 3pm to pick up my passport and visa..

i can’t wait till i have to renew my 1month visa in india, one month from now..
i’ll report back with just how kindly they treat me in the motherland..

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