Going to the Bahamas!!!!!!!!!

I'M GOING TO THE BAHAMAS TOMORROW AND WAKING UP AT SIX AM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


lots of picture will ensue.

My story so far

Cafe

The smell of sweat and smoke clings to the humid lazy air; it weighs on everyone in the cafe. People sit nearly shoulder to shoulder in the small cramped space. Each party is deep in conversation, some laughing, some serious. They all ignore the touch of a stranger's shoulder, the smell, the heat. The moisture in the air saturates the wood making the tables and chairs feel soft, almost flexible.

A woman wearing an extravagantly large straw hat enters the already crowded room, her white dress hugs her thin lithe body. Her skin appears flushed and her breathe comes in short spurts. A man sitting across from her smokes quietly, looking out the window. He snaps out of his reverie when the waitress comes to take the couple's order. They come here every week. They sit in the same spot, talk to each other in the same hushed, secretive manner regardless of whether their neighbors understand them or not. They stand out from the rest of the customers.

Everyone else is far more animated. They use their hands to make their point, they move their cups about the table to clear space for drawing on napkins, laying out backgammon boards. No one looks around them to observe their neighbors. Even if the couple spoke in their loudest tones, no one would hear. No one would care.

Next to the couple sits two men playing cards. The man against the wall sitting diagonally from the lady furrows his brow in concentration. His dark hair falls about his eyes, obscuring the view of his hand. Pale fingers attempt to draw the unruly hair away from his eyes, to no avail. Cigarettes burn away next to them in ashtrays, long abandoned; they burn down nearly to the filters. Their feeble red embers glow in a last attempt to reach the card player's attentions.

The smoke from their cigarettes blows to their left towards a man who sits reading. He is lost amidst the pages of a ponderous Dostoevsky novel, ignoring the smoke wafting his way. He turned the page ten minutes ago. He licks his left index finger and then puts his hand back down. His face shows signs of an epiphany. The quiet reader does this many times before he finally decides to turn the page. The waitress stops by his table in order to collect the bill. She says something to him and he smiles, getting up to leave, tucking the book into a dilapidated leather bag by his feet in one motion. Within seconds, the waitress clears the five cups from the table revealing an ornate blue mosaic beneath.

She carries the cups through a door next to her that sits on one hinge. The owner still refuses to replace the useless door, remarking that it gives the place character and that his great great grandfather nailed it to the very frame that it now hangs upon and that it looks beautiful. The waitress asked him everyday for a year and then suddenly stopped one day.

Rain begins to tap on the windows but no one notices the noise. It comes and goes without incident during the Monsoon season. Indians are quite used to sudden downpours, a little tapping on the window is not enough to pry them away from their coffee or tea to remark on the weather. The woman in the oversized hat is the only one that remarks on the change in weather, complaining that she'll get swept away in a flood before she reaches her hotel.

“Victor, how is he?” she asks her companion, “When do you think..”

“He is still a little ill. I would advise you to not go near him for a bit longer. Perhaps a little less than a fortnight now.”

“A fortnight?”

“No, I said a little less than a fortnight,” Victor takes a sip of his coffee, “there's a big difference. Now I know you miss him terribly, but you can't risk getting it. You didn't have it as a child and at your age— ”

“I'm not that old.”

“No. But old enough that it could harm you...just listen to me. For once.”

The waitress brings them their food and the conversation stops for a little while. They both eagerly use their hands to tear the flat bread into small pieces in order to eat the curry beef. A month ago, they would've requested forks and knives but now they feel comfortable using their hands. They still use some caution, however: they keep wet naps in their pockets for fear of becoming ill.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks him.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“What? That doesn't even make sense. I was just remarking on the fact—”

“That I eat like a cow?”

“Cows eat slowly, they don't inhale their food.”

“Well now you know how annoying it is,” Victor pauses to take a sip from his bottled water, “when I have to watch what I say around all women at all times, at all hours of the day and night.”

“Don't be melodramatic. I'm not like that. Oh! I almost forgot,” she pulls in her chair so that he can hear her better in the noisy Cafe, “I was wondering, Victor, how the land sale is going. In Darjeeling.”

Victor looks up from his food. He waits a few moments, opening and closing his mouth before any sound escapes.

“I can't say I know much. I won't be much of a help to you, darling.”

“Bullocks. Come on you've got to know something.”

He licks his lips, tasting the salt from his sweat and his lamb curry dish. Truthfully, he doesn't know much but he doubts that can deter the constant probing, and questioning from everyone around him.

“You see, I'm in a rather frustrating situation. I—and I swear to you Liv—don't actually know much about the land sale—”

“Yeah and I'm really Indian.”

“No honestly! Foster wouldn't even tell his own mother where the keys to their family fortune is let alone divulge any information regarding a particularly scandalous land sale to his lowly associate.”

“Well..what am I supposed to say to Dev?”

“Well you'll have nearly a fortnight to figure that out.”

She arrived on a miserably hot, rainy day. Already she didn't like Dhaka. Her mother warned her ahead of time but living in Oxford never adequately prepared Olivia for the Monsoon season. The airport was crowded and the smell of various people's sweat made her dizzy. Everyone moved at such a rushed pace that she barely had time to realize her long flight was finally over when she found herself trying to collect her luggage. Olivia's mother constantly advised her from the very moment she unfastened her seatbelt and she wished her mother stayed in Oxford with their dog. Umbrellas were useless and offered no protection from the savage downpour, they were drenched as soon as they stepped outside. A maroon car struggled to drive through the crowd that clogged the main driveway. The driver rolled down the window and Victor took the key to open the trunk.

Olivia sat with her mother in the back. After loading the luggage, Victor sat up front with his friend. She was soaked down to her underwear and she felt intensely uncomfortable. Looking out the window offered no comfort, or distraction from the uneasy feeling of her clothes sticking to her body, and the chill of the air conditioning.

“V-Vic,” her teeth chattered, “c-c-could you t-turn the air down? I'm chilled to the b-bone.”

Victor looked back at her from the passenger seat and let out a short, sharp laugh.

“Liv, don't pout so. Dhaka's really a charming little city.”

“I'm s-sure it is,” she whimpered, “when God decides to s-stop p-p-punishing the poor people here.”

“It's just the Monsoon season.” spoke up Victor's friend, the driver.

“Oh, I'm s-sorry. I don't mean to s-s-sound cranky. I'm just v-very cold.”

She felt her ears getting hot from embarrassment. Olivia silently admonished herself for sounding like a ten-year-old while her mother sat next to her politely chattering her teeth and not saying a word. A woman in her sixties, with arthritis could sit quietly in the cold air conditioning and not complain but she just couldn't bear it. Olivia wondered what Victor's friend thought; she wondered if he was amused or appalled.

Their hotel room was modest, spartan. On the night tables next to each bed stood two lamps, one electric and one kerosene. Blue mosquito nets lay neatly folded on the beds. Olivia's feet slipped a little on the smooth floor.

“What are the floors made out of, mother?”

“Some kind of rock or cement. I don't know for sure.”

The two women unpacked their belongings, stowing it away in the drawers and closets the hotel provided. Both were exhausted from their flight and spoke very little. Olivia's mother inspected the bathroom and to their relief, the facilities were up to date.

“I don't know why I always expect it to be like it was when your father brought me here. It's been ten years so why wouldn't the country change and develop?” Olivia's mother folded some pants and put them in a drawer. She walked back to the bathroom and talked to her daughter from there. Olivia began to ignore what she said.

It's not as if her father dragged her here, she thought. She could have stayed in England saying that her daughter needed her. Olivia always knew her mother loved adventure and never was one to lead a boring existence. Left behind in Oxford, caring for the child while her husband explored the Eastern Hemisphere didn't appeal to her at all. She wanted to come here.

“Olivia. Did you hear what I said?”

“Um...our evening plans?”

“I don't know how you just blank out like that. I said, it should be interesting to see what Dave's mother makes for us.”

Olivia turned to look at her mother who sat on the floor of the bathroom sorting out her personal effects. She found it odd that a woman that lived in Dhaka for five years couldn't pronounce the simplest Bengali name.

“His name's not Dave, Mum. It's Dev, you mustn't say it like that when we go to their home tonight. They'll think you're ignorant.”

“It was only a slip, Olivia. It's been a while, you know. Since I've been back.”

Her mother concentrated on organizing her toiletries and pursed her lips. Olivia chewed at her lip and watched her mother for a while more. She mumbled a feeble, barely audible apology and left the room, explaining that she wanted to explore the hotel.

Down the hall, past five rooms she found a small sitting area with a TV, a coffee table and some wicker chairs. Some newspapers lay strewn about the coffee table, some in English and some in languages she couldn't recognize. Olivia turned on the TV and then immediately turned it off. She preferred silence over the BBC broadcast. It would probably only make her homesick. She sat down in a chair, let out a sigh and began again to chew on her lip.

Public health. It's like a genetic disorder, her mother remarked before the trip to

India. People flock to England from India, trying to make a better life for themselves and the Brown family feel the need to go in the opposite direction. Mind boggling, her mother had continued to say, disregarding her daughter's growing annoyance.

“You were the one that went along for the ride.”

“Well I had to! He was my husband!” her mother finished her brandy and poured another glass, “You wouldn't understand.”

“You had to leave me behind in this place and go off following a husband that you cared—”

“Olivia!” her mother lowered her voice before continuing, “I cared nothing for his cause, yes, but I cared about him.”

“More than you ever cared for me anyway.”

And that's how that fight ended. Almost every fight ended that way with her, Olivia stormed out leaving her mother with the pieces. Olivia never confronted the real issues. Olivia never really dealt with anything. Olivia bottled it away. The marriage counselor told her that bit, you know how it's unhealthy to avoid fixing problems. She needed to really work on her interpersonal skills. But she never had trouble with her father. They never once fought; not even when he left. When they both left.

Olivia's head started to fall to the side and her eyelids grew heavy. She gave into her body's demands and fell asleep on the chair in the lounge.

Olivia always loved playing in her father's study. His library was full of books she could never attempt to read, even today. Her favorite things in his study were his stethoscope and his globe.

Olivia stepped outside onto Dev's balcony. The air seemed lighter after the downpour subsided and she breathed it in deeply. She looked down to see rickshaw drivers smoking and talking below. The smell of their smoke mingled with the fresh air and she wished less people would smoke. She loathed the smell.

Several plants hung above her head. Plants she could not recognize, plants she'd never seen before in her life covered her view of the ceiling. She felt like she was out in a garden; the balmy air, the abundance of green plants and colorful flowers overwhelmed her senses. She looked down to see a black and white pattern at her feet. The black tiles that created this pattern were out of place from this overhead garden; completely incongruous. These tiles reminded her that she was on the veranda at Dev's house attending a dinner party with her mother.

“What're you doing out here all alone? It's rude you know, when a guest invites you and you don't talk to their mother, or compliment her on her—” Victor began to lecture Olivia.

“Hey guys!” called out Dev from inside, “the rickshaw-wallas' more entertaining than me?”

“We thought that the mothers wanted to talk, get to know each other.” said Olivia as she turned to face Dev. She smiled at him before she took a sip from her drink, “why don't you join us?”

Dev took the invitation and joined Olivia and Victor on the balcony. The three of them looked out into the horizon in silence until Victor started talking about cricket. They filled the air with conversation again, for a while and then stopped when Victor's cell phone rang. He moved away from Olivia and Dev to the other side of the long balcony.

“Victor tells me you're in public health?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No...well,” Dev smiled, ran his fingers through his dark hair, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and finally decided to rest his arm on the railing, leaning on it. He continued to smile, but this time for no apparent reason. After some time he broke the silence.

“ I think it's very interesting that you'd leave a place like England for Dhaka.”

“Well I feel more purposeful here,” Olivia finished her drink and stroked the rim of the glass with her index finger, “I feel more needed.”

“Well you probably are more needed here. I'm sure AIDS isn't as much a threat to the population as it is in say, Africa but I could be wrong. I don't know much about it, you see.”

“I haven't done any work here yet but I have done research. It's taboo here, no one really talks about it openly.” She turned to look at Dev instead of at the rickshaw drivers. He was still looking at nothing in particular, his thoughts occupied him as he stared straight ahead of him at an apartment complex. He was counting how many windows there were on each floor.

Olivia for the first time inspected Dev's features. All through dinner she had fiddled with the fish, taking care not to eat the bones for fear of choking, or stared intently at the odd vegetables on her plate wondering all the while where she stowed her Pepto Bismol. Dev's presence did not distract her attentions from her food. She'd eaten with her hands, found it odd at first and then discovered she enjoyed her food more than when she ate with a fork and knife. Observing the native customs was very important to Victor and so Olivia did not mind trying. Her mother, of course, was not so daring. Old habits die hard, her mother had explained.

Dev was not the way she'd pictured him in her mind. He was lighter than the Bengalis she'd encountered at the airport but then again that wasn't abnormal. They were probably laborers and spent lots of time out in the sun. His prominent nose was dramatic and complemented his other features: almond shaped brown eyes, sculpted jaw-line. There was nothing visibly odd about his appearance in the dim, evening light. No moles on his cheek, no blemishes or hideous scars.

He began to smile again before he turned his head to look at her. Olivia noticed a small, dark mole on his right ear that contrasted with his skin. She didn't quite realize he'd turned to face her until he spoke.

“Have you been staring at me this whole time?”

“Um...well you're more interesting than those rickshaw drivers down there,” she shrugged at him and began to play with the empty glass. Her fingers were a bit sweaty and she lost her grip, the smooth surface slipped quickly out of her grasp. It fell and broke in the center of the rickshaw drivers' circle. Olivia gasped, placed her hand over her mouth and immediately hid by dropping to the ground so that the drivers couldn't see her. Dev looked down at her and laughed.

“Why're you hiding?” asked Dev. Olivia looked up at him and then quickly looked back down at her feet. As she began to get up Victor walked over to them.

“Oh come on Olivia, I know you're a woman of this century and everything but you just met Dev and you're on your—”

“Shut up Victor.”

Olivia walked into the sitting room, and continued on until she reached the dinning room where her mother and Dev's mother sat talking. The smell of their evening's meal lingered in the house and she noticed that the ceiling fans did little to alleviate the heat.

Plot: the narrator is the father of the woman with the white dress and the overgrown hat. He found her after years of searching. He took up a job at her office and recommended this restaurant where he sips his morning coffee every morning. She loved the place so much she now attends every week. He watches her from afar. It's happened for a year now and he is thinking about revealing himself even though she's probably forgotten him. The characters the narrator observes have stories of their own, but what I haven't decided.

My New Story So Far

The Realist's Thoughts

Cafe

The smell of sweat and smoke clings to the humid lazy air; it weighs on everyone in the cafe. People sit nearly shoulder to shoulder in the small cramped space. Each party is deep in conversation, some laughing, some serious. They all ignore the touch of a stranger's shoulder, the smell, the heat. The moisture in the air saturates the wood making the tables and chairs feel soft, almost flexible.

A woman wearing an extravagantly large straw hat enters the already crowded room, her white dress hugs her thin lithe body. Her skin appears flushed and her breathe comes in short spurts. A man sitting across from her smokes quietly, looking out the window. He snaps out of his reverie when the waitress comes to take the couple's order. They come here every week. They sit in the same spot, talk to each other in the same hushed, secretive manner regardless of whether their neighbors understand them or not. They stand out from the rest of the customers.

Everyone else is far more animated. They use their hands to make their point, they move their cups about the table to clear space for drawing on napkins, laying out backgammon boards. No one looks around them to observe their neighbors. Even if the couple spoke in their loudest tones, no one would hear. No one would care.

Next to the couple sits two men playing cards. The man against the wall sitting diagonally from the lady furrows his brow in concentration. His dark hair falls about his eyes, obscuring the view of his hand. Pale fingers attempt to draw the unruly hair away from his eyes, to no avail. Cigarettes burn away next to them in ashtrays, long abandoned; they burn down nearly to the filters. Their feeble red embers glow in a last attempt to reach the card player's attentions.

The smoke from their cigarettes blows to their left towards a man who sits reading. He is lost amidst the pages of a ponderous Dostoevsky novel, ignoring the smoke wafting his way. He turned the page ten minutes ago. He licks his left index finger and then puts his hand back down. His face shows signs of an epiphany. The quiet reader does this many times before he finally decides to turn the page. The waitress stops by his table in order to collect the bill. She says something to him and he smiles, getting up to leave, tucking the book into a dilapidated leather bag by his feet in one motion. Within seconds, the waitress clears the five cups from the table revealing an ornate blue mosaic beneath.

She carries the cups through a door next to her that sits on one hinge. The owner still refuses to replace the useless door, remarking that it gives the place character and that his great great grandfather nailed it to the very frame that it now hangs upon and that it looks beautiful. The waitress asked him everyday for a year and then suddenly stopped one day.

Rain begins to tap on the windows but no one notices the noise. It comes and goes without incident during the Monsoon season. Indians are quite used to sudden downpours, a little tapping on the window is not enough to pry them away from their coffee or tea to remark on the weather. The woman in the oversized hat is the only one that remarks on the change in weather, complaining that she'll get swept away in a flood before she reaches her hotel.

“Victor, how is he?” she asks her companion, “When do you think..”

“He is still a little ill. I would advise you to not go near him for a bit longer. Perhaps a little less than a fortnight now.”

“A fortnight?”

“No, I said a little less than a fortnight,” Victor takes a sip of his coffee, “there's a big difference. Now I know you miss him terribly, but you can't risk getting it. You didn't have it as a child and at your age— ”

“I'm not that old.”

“No. But old enough that it could harm you...just listen to me. For once.”

The waitress brings them their food and the conversation stops for a little while. They both eagerly use their hands to tear the flat bread into small pieces in order to eat the curry beef. A month ago, they would've requested forks and knives but now they feel comfortable using their hands. They still use some caution, however: they keep wet naps in their pockets for fear of becoming ill.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks him.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“What? That doesn't even make sense. I was just remarking on the fact—”

“That I eat like a cow?”

“Cows eat slowly, they don't inhale their food.”

“Well now you know how annoying it is,” Victor pauses to take a sip from his bottled water, “when I have to watch what I say around all women at all times, at all hours of the day and night.”

“Don't be melodramatic. I'm not like that. Oh! I almost forgot,” she pulls in her chair so that he can hear her better in the noisy Cafe, “I was wondering, Victor, how the land sale is going. In Darjeeling.”

Victor looks up from his food. He waits a few moments, opening and closing his mouth before any sound escapes.

“I can't say I know much. I won't be much of a help to you, darling.”

“Bullocks. Come on you've got to know something.”

He licks his lips, tasting the salt from his sweat and his lamb curry dish. Truthfully, he doesn't know much but he doubts that can deter the constant probing, and questioning from everyone around him.

“You see, I'm in a rather frustrating situation. I—and I swear to you Liv—don't actually know much about the land sale—”

“Yeah and I'm really Indian.”

“No honestly! Foster wouldn't even tell his own mother where the keys to their family fortune is let alone divulge any information regarding a particularly scandalous land sale to his lowly associate.”

“Well..what am I supposed to say to Dev?”

“Well you'll have nearly a fortnight to figure that out.”

She arrived on a miserably hot, rainy day. Already she didn't like Dhaka. Her mother warned her ahead of time but living in Oxford never adequately prepared Olivia for the Monsoon season. The airport was crowded and the smell of various people's sweat made her dizzy. Everyone moved at such a rushed pace that she barely had time to realize her long flight was finally over when she found herself trying to collect her luggage. Olivia's mother constantly advised her from the very moment she unfastened her seatbelt and she wished her mother stayed in Oxford with their dog. Umbrellas were useless and offered no protection from the savage downpour, they were drenched as soon as they stepped outside. A maroon car struggled to drive through the crowd that clogged the main driveway. The driver rolled down the window and Victor took the key to open the trunk.

Olivia sat with her mother in the back. After loading the luggage, Victor sat up front with his friend. She was soaked down to her underwear and she felt intensely uncomfortable. Looking out the window offered no comfort, or distraction from the uneasy feeling of her clothes sticking to her body, and the chill of the air conditioning.

“V-Vic,” her teeth chattered, “c-c-could you t-turn the air down? I'm chilled to the b-bone.”

Victor looked back at her from the passenger seat and let out a short, sharp laugh.

“Liv, don't pout so. Dhaka's really a charming little city.”

“I'm s-sure it is,” she whimpered, “when God decides to s-stop p-p-punishing the poor people here.”

“It's just the Monsoon season.” spoke up Victor's friend, the driver.

“Oh, I'm s-sorry. I don't mean to s-s-sound cranky. I'm just v-very cold.”

She felt her ears getting hot from embarrassment. Olivia silently admonished herself for sounding like a ten-year-old while her mother sat next to her politely chattering her teeth and not saying a word. A woman in her sixties, with arthritis could sit quietly in the cold air conditioning and not complain but she just couldn't bear it. Olivia wondered what Victor's friend thought; she wondered if he was amused or appalled.

Their hotel room was modest, spartan. On the night tables next to each bed stood two lamps, one electric and one kerosene. Blue mosquito nets lay neatly folded on the beds. Olivia's feet slipped a little on the smooth floor.

“What are the floors made out of, mother?”

“Some kind of rock or cement. I don't know for sure.”

The two women unpacked their belongings, stowing it away in the drawers and closets the hotel provided. Both were exhausted from their flight and spoke very little. Olivia's mother inspected the bathroom and to their relief, the facilities were up to date.

“I don't know why I always expect it to be like it was when your father brought me here. It's been ten years so why wouldn't the country change and develop?” Olivia's mother folded some pants and put them in a drawer. She walked back to the bathroom and talked to her daughter from there. Olivia began to ignore what she said.

It's not as if her father dragged her here, she thought. She could have stayed in England saying that her daughter needed her. Olivia always knew her mother loved adventure and never was one to lead a boring existence. Left behind in Oxford, caring for the child while her husband explored the Eastern Hemisphere didn't appeal to her at all. She wanted to come here.

“Olivia. Did you hear what I said?”

“Um...our evening plans?”

“I don't know how you just blank out like that. I said, it should be interesting to see what Dave's mother makes for us.”

Olivia turned to look at her mother who sat on the floor of the bathroom sorting out her personal effects. She found it odd that a woman that lived in Dhaka for five years couldn't pronounce the simplest Bengali name.

“His name's not Dave, Mum. It's Dev, you mustn't say it like that when we go to their home tonight. They'll think you're ignorant.”

“It was only a slip, Olivia. It's been a while, you know. Since I've been back.”

Her mother concentrated on organizing her toiletries and pursed her lips. Olivia chewed at her lip and watched her mother for a while more. She mumbled a feeble, barely audible apology and left the room, explaining that she wanted to explore the hotel.

Down the hall, past five rooms she found a small sitting area with a TV, a coffee table and some wicker chairs. Some newspapers lay strewn about the coffee table, some in English and some in languages she couldn't recognize. Olivia turned on the TV and then immediately turned it off. She preferred silence over the BBC broadcast. It would probably only make her homesick. She sat down in a chair, let out a sigh and began again to chew on her lip.

Public health. It's like a genetic disorder, her mother remarked before the trip to

India. People flock to England from India, trying to make a better life for themselves and the Brown family feel the need to go in the opposite direction. Mind boggling, her mother had continued to say, disregarding her daughter's growing annoyance.

“You were the one that went along for the ride.”

“Well I had to! He was my husband!” her mother finished her brandy and poured another glass, “You wouldn't understand.”

“You had to leave me behind in this place and go off following a husband that you cared—”

“Olivia!” her mother lowered her voice before continuing, “I cared nothing for his cause, yes, but I cared about him.”

“More than you ever cared for me anyway.”

And that's how that fight ended. Almost every fight ended that way with her, Olivia stormed out leaving her mother with the pieces. Olivia never confronted the real issues. Olivia never really dealt with anything. Olivia bottled it away. The marriage counselor told her that bit, you know how it's unhealthy to avoid fixing problems. She needed to really work on her interpersonal skills. But she never had trouble with her father. They never once fought; not even when he left. When they both left.

Olivia's head started to fall to the side and her eyelids grew heavy. She gave into her body's demands and fell asleep on the chair in the lounge.

Olivia always loved playing in her father's study. His library was full of books she could never attempt to read, even today. Her favorite things in his study were his stethoscope and his globe.

Olivia stepped outside onto Dev's balcony. The air seemed lighter after the downpour subsided and she breathed it in deeply. She looked down to see rickshaw drivers smoking and talking below. The smell of their smoke mingled with the fresh air and she wished less people would smoke. She loathed the smell.

Several plants hung above her head. Plants she could not recognize, plants she'd never seen before in her life covered her view of the ceiling. She felt like she was out in a garden; the balmy air, the abundance of green plants and colorful flowers overwhelmed her senses. She looked down to see a black and white pattern at her feet. The black tiles that created this pattern were out of place from this overhead garden; completely incongruous. These tiles reminded her that she was on the veranda at Dev's house attending a dinner party with her mother.

“What're you doing out here all alone? It's rude you know, when a guest invites you and you don't talk to their mother, or compliment her on her—” Victor began to lecture Olivia.

“Hey guys!” called out Dev from inside, “the rickshaw-wallas' more entertaining than me?”

“We thought that the mothers wanted to talk, get to know each other.” said Olivia as she turned to face Dev. She smiled at him before she took a sip from her drink, “why don't you join us?”

Dev took the invitation and joined Olivia and Victor on the balcony. The three of them looked out into the horizon in silence until Victor started talking about cricket. They filled the air with conversation again, for a while and then stopped when Victor's cell phone rang. He moved away from Olivia and Dev to the other side of the long balcony.

“Victor tells me you're in public health?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No...well,” Dev smiled, ran his fingers through his dark hair, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and finally decided to rest his arm on the railing, leaning on it. He continued to smile, but this time for no apparent reason. After some time he broke the silence.

“ I think it's very interesting that you'd leave a place like England for Dhaka.”

“Well I feel more purposeful here,” Olivia finished her drink and stroked the rim of the glass with her index finger, “I feel more needed.”

“Well you probably are more needed here. I'm sure AIDS isn't as much a threat to the population as it is in say, Africa but I could be wrong. I don't know much about it, you see.”

“I haven't done any work here yet but I have done research. It's taboo here, no one really talks about it openly.” She turned to look at Dev instead of at the rickshaw drivers. He was still looking at nothing in particular, his thoughts occupied him as he stared straight ahead of him at an apartment complex. He was counting how many windows there were on each floor.

Olivia for the first time inspected Dev's features. All through dinner she had fiddled with the fish, taking care not to eat the bones for fear of choking, or stared intently at the odd vegetables on her plate wondering all the while where she stowed her Pepto Bismol. Dev's presence did not distract her attentions from her food. She'd eaten with her hands, found it odd at first and then discovered she enjoyed her food more than when she ate with a fork and knife. Observing the native customs was very important to Victor and so Olivia did not mind trying. Her mother, of course, was not so daring. Old habits die hard, her mother had explained.

Dev was not the way she'd pictured him in her mind. He was lighter than the Bengalis she'd encountered at the airport but then again that wasn't abnormal. They were probably laborers and spent lots of time out in the sun. His prominent nose was dramatic and complemented his other features: almond shaped brown eyes, sculpted jaw-line. There was nothing visibly odd about his appearance in the dim, evening light. No moles on his cheek, no blemishes or hideous scars.

He began to smile again before he turned his head to look at her. Olivia noticed a small, dark mole on his right ear that contrasted with his skin. She didn't quite realize he'd turned to face her until he spoke.

“Have you been staring at me this whole time?”

“Um...well you're more interesting than those rickshaw drivers down there,” she shrugged at him and began to play with the empty glass. Her fingers were a bit sweaty and she lost her grip, the smooth surface slipped quickly out of her grasp. It fell and broke in the center of the rickshaw drivers' circle. Olivia gasped, placed her hand over her mouth and immediately hid by dropping to the ground so that the drivers couldn't see her. Dev looked down at her and laughed.

“Why're you hiding?” asked Dev. Olivia looked up at him and then quickly looked back down at her feet. As she began to get up Victor walked over to them.

“Oh come on Olivia, I know you're a woman of this century and everything but you just met Dev and you're on your—”

“Shut up Victor.”

Olivia walked into the sitting room, and continued on until she reached the dinning room where her mother and Dev's mother sat talking. The smell of their evening's meal lingered in the house and she noticed that the ceiling fans did little to alleviate the heat.

Plot: the narrator is the father of the woman with the white dress and the overgrown hat. He found her after years of searching. He took up a job at her office and recommended this restaurant where he sips his morning coffee every morning. She loved the place so much she now attends every week. He watches her from afar. It's happened for a year now and he is thinking about revealing himself even though she's probably forgotten him. The characters the narrator observes have stories of their own, but what I haven't decided.

salvaging the old

Looking back here are the posts worth keeping:

Friday, August 26, 2005

He's dead. You know he's dead. But sometimes you forget. Sometimes it's as if he never really existed; He gets ''backstalked'' behind the 15 page papers, your first layered cake, that big party, or the beginning of your adult life. It's not like that hole is filled in, that thing that's missing's not exactly replaced by something else. Those memories collect dust behind the mundane everyday ones that come along. Of stolen kisses, frustrated lazy summer days filled with nothing, thoughts of packing moving out, dorming, your mom's health (she is, thank goodness, alive atleast). But then you find a piece of paper from that very day and it's as if you've just come home from the cemetary; the dirt above his grave still fresh. But then you find your very own words declaring your love for the dearly departed and you realize and you feel and you hurt and the dust simply evaporates.

Monday, July 25, 2005

My mother traveled accross the world, left behind her familiar home, the protection of her older brother and native land to come here to this country where the poor become rich. All her prospects ignored at the drop of a hat for my sake, my promising future. Alone she struggled to support her rebellious child, this Westernized version of her that never ceases to cause her great stress. She was lost in this alien land without a husband to guide and protect her. I hope that I can, in the next six months, be worthy of her sacrifice.

Shahrin Ahsan, Zenith Poetry Submissions Lily Her jet black tresses that fall around her shoulders now smell of sweet red roses. She speaks in hushed tones which help me to fall asleep; flee to a far land. But I will never travel far without her scent lulling me to rest. The Bus Driver I pass him as I go to take my seat. The people around me are entranced by their newspapers, lattes, and headphones. The bus does not lurch from stop to stop so as not to shake the riders out of their spells; due to the control the driver has over his vehicle. His gray tousled beard along with his long aged hair gives him the appearance of Jesus. Eyes heavy with the weight of wisdom, open and close tediously. His face devoid of lines still do not fail to shows his age. The others walk past my gaze random articles jingling in their pockets. I know then that I must be moving on. No salutations pass my lips but with the clinking my fare is paid to him, I leave Jesus behind. Dusk The land is no longer ablaze; the heat has stopped radiating from the ground and causing people to retreat into their air conditioned cars and homes. The colors in the sky demur from becoming black but merely smudge together in a wonderful mural with streaks of misty purple clouds from a painter?s brush casually leaving a few lazy streaks on the canvas; signaling that Pheobus' steeds will finally rest for the night. The black outline of houses on their perfectly proportioned property in suburbia have squares and rectangles of light that reveal the people living inside: The woman in the first house has a date with the dishes; A lonely man holds a can of beer while sucked into the fluorescent TV So ends the day, in a state of calm, the breeze rocking the trees to sleep and soothes the burned skin of the people inhabiting their homes with open windows Afternoons With Grandfather On my cheek a lingering sweet kiss remained as a bit of my mother for me to keep before she departed. The sofa towered high above my head as I explored my home one intimidating inch at a time. My courageous adventure brought me to the feet of my grandfather whose face loomed high above my vision Soon I was seated across from him a board between us. He meant to teach me of a time long ago where fates were decided strategies plotted of feudal lords their ladies and soldiers all lined up to fight for the king. Enclosed in a box be it white or black ornate wooden pieces dulled with age. I was made to think before I made any move in honor of my ivory king. This game of skill whiled away my motherless hours until evening came to replenish the spot where my sweet kiss of the morning had long ago dried.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

I just can't understand how I've ended up like this. Trying hard and ending up no where. Working hard and it never being enough. He will always complain that I dont see him much...she will always miss me coz I don't make an effort to see her I haven't worked hard enough to have money for college over the four years in high school so I work real damned hard now but fall short on the family front. I barely have enough time to see my family let alone friends. I don't do work around the house I'm apparently always being mean to my aunt and my mother, don't act quickly enough to get anything done. Oh yeah, and there's this minor litlte thing of being a complete fuck up in my mom's eyes. Her exact words: "I can't believe I've failed so miserably with you"(only in bangla). great. Good to know you worked so hard to bring me into the world, good to know I've worked so hard to make up for your losses in life and am now just a failure. I'm not the daughter you wanted. But that has nothing to do with the huge mistakes you made in your life, now does it. The not being there for me when I was a kid and having substitute mom and dads--however great and loving and cool they were--has nothing to do with the fact that I'm not the kid you dreamed of. Well no one gets what they dream of. Ever. It's a rare occurrence....so why should I have all these expectations now, they'll be crushed anyway. I'll probably never pass my MCATS or make it ot London or marry the guy I want or be happy....drive cool cars. Fuck I even can't have the simple things like a normal mom. Just coz she can't adjust I'm a failure. It just hurts and I'm bitter. Fuck the world. And you can say I work hard to please myself but that's just not enough for me. My life doesn't just revolve around me, there are other people to consider. If I can't make the very woman that gave up everything for me to have a better life happy then what good am I?

Friday, June 17, 2005

guess who is awesome? Me me mememe. I did everything I set out to do this month and I'm so proud of myself. I got a great job, I'm making a descent amount of money, I've started becoming obsessed about reading again, guitar playing's back, I finished one short story, and yeah. tomorrow I'm/we're celebrating Shilpi Apu's birthday party. I think I'm baking a cake again. heheheh. wonderfulness. um...i'm playing for her guests two songs. A friend of ours, Shilpi's best friend since high school is coming to visit . I haven't seeen her since their wedding! I'm so excited.

Sunday, May 29, 2005

I took down the picture of my mom and I on the veranda in Bangladesh, her happy face clutching me close to her chest disappeared into my bag. I took down the pictures that tracked the progression of Leo from strange freshman to confident senior. My schedule came down with these snipets of my life and the beloved blury image of my father and I in DC. I had to. I needed to leave. And in my place some little snot-faced freshman will occupy this hideous bright yellow locker next fall. This was mine for four years. My place to dump heavy books, binders filled with frustrating material I'd never be able to master and dance shoes, pants, and smelly shirts. This locker laid blank, nearly uninhabited by Freshman Shahrin who had trouble remembering her combination, getting along with people that'd known eachother since pre-school and dealing with the greatest loss of her life. On the spines of the binders read: Algebra, Wld Hist, IIS, Eng. 9H and Fr. All joke classes posing no challenges (especially in science, what a waste). Hell, on Friday's my last class ended at 12:40 and I was free to go to "dance". One remarkable thing came out of that year though and that's the only reason that makes that year even worth mentioning. The next year brought great things, a fun year with few challenges or tragedies. No jarring events to upset my delicate sensibilities. One huge bio binder, a photo binder, another huge modern hist. binder, slim geometry, english and french. Nothing I couldn't handle. No new friendships. A repeat of a successful dance show, a lasting relationship. Inspiration struck this year, left lasting impressions. Brilliant. Things were perfect. Student suicide came in Junior year where Shahrin had a brilliant idea to take two hard science courses ending all hope of having time to relax. On mondays there was no lunch period and I was forced to eat during history. Oh yeah, those pesky things called the SAT's. Colleges are looking at you, they said. Sure they were, it's not like the application evaluation process isn't like a lottery at all. No. Of course not. That year, however, there were no AP binders. Shame on me. Those come in senior year, the year that it doesn't really matter....what's the point in writing this? Oh yes...to feel a single tear trickle down one cheek and see that I've had such wonderful experiences, how much I've grown; I'm leaving the ''best years of my life''. In reality I'm taking with me my best friends, my art, my writing, and dance videos. I'm leaving nothing behind that I'll miss. Certainly not those terrible 78 minute classes. Crying seems pointless. Perhaps that's why the tears don't come. It's just not there and I needn't try. High school was not horrible yet wasn't mind blowing. It just was. Perhaps at graduation I shall feel a pang of sentiment as I think of who will inhabit my faithful, trusty locker.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Artist: Annie Lennox Song: Into The West (The Lord Of The Rings) Lay down your sweet and weary head, Night is falling, you have come to journeyâ??s end. Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before, They are calling from across a distant shore. Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see, all of your fears will pass away. safe in my arms, you're only sleeping. Chorus: What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea a pale moon rises, The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass, A light on the water, all souls pass. Hope fades into the world of night, Through shadows falling out of memory and time. Don't say, We have come now to the end. White shores are calling, you and I will meet again And you'll be here in my arms, just sleeping. Chorus: What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea a pale moon rises, The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass A light on the water, Grey Ships pass into the west.

Friday, January 21, 2005

It's odd that one would much rather love than be alone yet when one loves they risk the chance of getting hurt really badly. But it's better to love than not. Yet how do you love someone like you used to who has changed so much. Who doesn't even see the sweetness in you anymore, who just thinks of you as an angsty teen who has no real reason to pout. Who never hugs you or releases an ounce of warmth even on the good days. An attempt to reminisce gets shot down with a contrasting image of how I used to be and how I am now- anything but ideal. Then is it better to close your heart off, put on a filter to those words and take only the good? But you have to live with the bad and you often forget about them. What made it all this way, this cold empty harshness that I can hear; feel. In the end she is the one, the victim of a tragedy and I am the pain in the ass. It's because I've become bitter, nothing like I used to be even though I beg to differ. The truth hurts to see that in oneself so perhaps they should take a look....and we're back to the guilt about missing him for selfish reasons, to make my problems go away and help me deal with the new ones. We depend so much on people it's sad.

A lot to say

I'm good at denial, nowadays. Never used to be. I used to look at things the way they are, for what they are, and why they REALLY are. There are no mind games with me. But I just ignored all this emotion regarding school because I was just so happy it was finally over (and now I miss it but that's not abnormal, a lot of my friends miss it). And today, when arguing about something totally unrelated, it all comes out. Again. It came trickling out for a bit when I first got my grades.
And what did I think? Oh well, it is what it is, you can't change it now. But that's not the kind of person I am. I am the girl that feels sad, disappointed in herself, thinks of future stratgies. People want me to be happy and revel in my smarts, and be proud that I even go to college etc. BUT I'M NOT HAPPY WITH THAT. For all those that tell I'm beautiful, that tell me I'm so lucky to be smart, it's still not good enough for me. I can't just be smart and coast on it. I have nothing to show for it. Why am I not better at school? Why can't I get the grades that Dan gets or that Ani gets, or tha Nipa gets (I assume she gets better grades than me), or that my friend that just graduated high school is and is going to Columbia gets?
Then there's my dream to concider. What do these crappy, average grades mean for my dream. Will I ever realize my dreams?

............."Maybe you're just tired of worrying all year and refuse to do it anymore."

He realizes this, and I start to think about it and then he decides that is the time to go. That is the time that he decides to feel sleepy. All this time when something bothered him, he wasn't sleepy but when I begin to have an epiphany, begin to show any signs of annoyance with myself he leaves.

.........."You know, shahrin, we've kinda done all the work for you so it's OK that we worry more than you.."

No. I'm not worried about the trip to the Bahamas because I'm going with my Best friend and my love. That is why. I couldn't be in better hands. But when you've got one of them worrying about how to get on the plane and the other worried about what's gonna happen afterwards, what's there left for you to worry about? And why should I go out of my way to do a ton of research when she's already done ALL the freaking work. Don't do the work and then complain about it. Don't volunteer to be the tourguide and then complain about it. Please. Spare me the agony. If she really cared, she should've flat out asked me to do something and not totally....just left it to "my senses" and what I feel I should do. I like direct questions and answers.

And then don't turn around and call me lazy, or not proactive. Shouldn't someone that's been friends with me for ten years realize by now what kind of a person I am? That I'm not gonna sit back on my first trip without my parents and not..have any say in what we do? Be led off while someone else holds my hands?

I let one thing go and people get all weird on me. I let this be the one time that I don't worry my head off and I let this one trip be the time that I'm not just looking forward to going on and that's all....what' wrong with enjoying yourself when you travel? If you know you've got your shit together that's all that you can do and that's all that you can forsee. If things go wrong,they go wrong. It's not something you anticipate.

And then it brings me back to my original reason for writing: how do I feel about my grades? Did I really give it my all this semester? AND WHY DO I STILL CARE??????????????
Is this what I want for the rest of my life? Is it worth all this grief and frustration? Am I even cut out for this?

I hate the feeling that no matter how hard I work I'll just end up getting a B anyway. Then I think, why bother. And then I get my grades and I'm dissatisfied and then I just sit and get angry at myself.

This really needs to change. I haven't seen results. I work hard, i get the same crappy grades. What a fucking dissappointing semester. Honest to fucking god. Could I have been more idiotic?

Ok...so the rational way of looking at it:

I might have shown more initiative on this whole trip planning business. Yeah I put the hotel downpayment on my card. Yeah I e-mailed them when things changed. Yeah I looked at things to do while I was at work and yeah I'm doing some mental trip planning.

But was it really necessary for me to go out and get a guidebook in addition to the guidebook Ani and Dan have?

When I'm in school, I write lists upon lists. I make grids, color coated flow charts, pie graphs. My phone programs my life. Does my vacation need to be the same way?

My Grades: There's no way around it. They are what they are and I can't change them. I just don't have to like them. How do I change? I can always say I'll work harder. I'll get tutors. SHIT I NEED TO SIGN UP FOR TUTORS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!!!!!!!!!!! or else all of them will run out.

anyway, where was I? Perhaps a career change is in order. I might need to rethink the medschool thing. With these grades, I don't see myself getting in anywhere. ANYWHERE! OR even getting above a 20 on the MCATS. And no it's not too soon to start thinking about this. I'm a rising sophomore. I have so much at stake. So much money so much time so much effort. If you know that you're about to partake in something you might want to know if it's a Sysiphisian task.

Tomorrow is a new day. I'm going to see Mr. Roy. I'm going to visit the highschoool where I met the love of my life. The halls where I grew up, and danced, and made out a lot. The rooms where I tried my best to learn stuff. That is all that matters.

And I'm one day closer to my trip to paradise.