Starting a New Life

Ray had notice a girl walk in and take a seat opposite of him, but the news he was reading, a Rottweiler’s fierce attack on a small boy, was too gripping for anything to disturb him. Anyway, he didn’t have a habit of ogling girls who sat opposite him in trains.

After five minutes, the song in his iPod ended. The sound of train hurtling forward filtered through the headphones. He finished reading the news also. He packed up the newspaper and looked up. The girl sitting in front him came to his view.

He stared at her for a moment. Ray didn’t remember how long it was. Not long he hoped, as the girl had noticed him stare and smiled. He had returned her smile. But this had rendered him nervous. And now, he needed to find courage to look up, see if she was interested in talking to him. It wasn’t easy, there were other passengers in the train. They would be curious, even laugh if his attempt failed.

But Ray wanted to try. He wanted to find out if the girl’s smile had been genuine. She was the prettiest site he’d seen for a long time. He didn’t know what made her so attractive. Maybe it was her hair. Ray had always liked girls with ginger hair. Maybe it was her large blue eyes. They were like lakes. Ray had felt he could dive inside them and lose himself forever. Or maybe it was her skin, so fair and smooth. He’d liked the way she’d dressed also. Her blue T-shirt showed enough of her cleavage. Not much, but enough to want Ray to see more. The top matched with the faded blue jeans and the blue chucks she was wearing. He’d even noticed a heart shaped, sapphire coloured ring in her right index finger. Ray seemed to agree with everything about her.

He had to initiate the conversation soon though. After ten minutes, the train was stopping at his station. He would have to get off. He could stay on, get off at her station also, but unless the girl showed interest, he didn’t really want to do that. As his iPod shuffled and started playing a song, he realized Lisa would be waiting for him in his flat. Today, they had agreed to sit down as civilized people and discuss, not argue. There were so many things to thrash out, about their property, their two daughters, who would have possession, what visiting rights to give. So many things. Ten years of marriage burdened you endlessly.

At his work today, meetings, attending clients and phone calls, replying email queries, and supervising his juniors had kept him extremely busy. Being a senior accountant wasn’t easy. But he’d enjoyed it, especially today. Ten hours had just flown by, and not for a single moment, he’d thought of his worries of having to encounter Lisa.

It wasn’t easy facing her. Never will be. He’d given her so much love during ten years of their marriage. Many nights, he’d stayed awake taking care of their wailing young daughters, so that Lisa could sleep, report to work next day. He had work too, but he’d sacrificed because he loved Lisa. Adored her. Just imagine the hurt you’d get after all that when your wife said she didn’t love you, that she was having an affair with another man. Ray was a strong man, an ambitious man, but after that revelation, he’d cried like a baby. He’d even pleaded, countless times, for Lisa to end the affair. He’d forgive her. They should work it out, start to love each other, even if it’s just for the sake of their daughters. But Lisa wouldn’t. She’d said it wasn’t Ray’s fault that she’d fallen for this man. Little did that comfort him.

Now, after months of torture, Ray could fall in love, banish all the hurtful memories. He would be rejuvenated. Ray liked nothing better than cuddling the lady he loved all night long.

He forced himself to look up. Sweat was now clearly visible in his brows and temples.

The girl was looking at him.

He was taken back. She must be interested in me then, thought Ray. He smiled, but the girl had looked away. She was instead running her slender fingers through her wispy, shoulder length hair, adjusting it sideways, then playing them with both her hands. Ray had to speak. He had to switch off his iPod before that.

He took the machine out of his pocket and realized the girl too was listening something from her MP3 player. Her ears contained headphones. Even if Ray tried to speak, she wouldn’t hear. Oh Dear!

Ray had always enjoyed iPod. He’d thought it was a wonderful invention. This was his second one. He’d loved the first one so much that he’d used it endlessly, while traveling back and forth from work, during lunchtime, whenever he was free. The battery though had died and he had to purchase a new one.

But now, he was starting to hate the MP3 player. These modern machines made people individualistic, took away your social skills. Not that Ray had any. He kept only few friends. He liked staying home, reading books and keeping himself up to date with news and current affairs. Lisa was his second girlfriend and his only true love. He didn’t have a habit of speaking to strangers in public. But that had to change, or forever, he’d have to live with Lisa’s hurt.

Ray was in a dilemma now. Should he shut his iPod, take out his headphone, and appear as if he’s ready to talk to her? Or maybe he should try to make more eye contacts first, smile when she sees him? His heart was beginning to thump. This was an alien activity for him. He felt like a teenage boy. Only his attire, a black suit he was donning, reminded him that he was returning from work.

He kept his headphone, fearing he’d look too obvious. The girl had only smiled at him, nothing much.

She was looking inside her bag now. Ray looked at her and noticed the landscape from the window behind her. They were travelling across a large farm. The land was barren. Farming season was over. In a month’s time, the field would have new visitor – snow. Ray hated spending winter alone. He doubted he could survive.

The girl started checking her mobile phone. She pressed couple of buttons, appeared to be reading some message, then put the phone back into her bag. After that, she looked straight, not at Ray though, but at the window behind him. This was a small train, only three carriages. The girl was barely two feet away.

What could he do now? She was sending mix signals. It had been five minutes since she’d last looked at Ray. Maybe she wasn’t interested. Unlike Ray, maybe she was returning home to a wonderful boyfriend. Maybe she loved him, didn’t want to be unfaithful to him. But unless Ray conversed with the girl, he wouldn’t find out.

Ten minutes isn’t a lot of time. You can’t keep on thinking, hoping something will happen and you won’t run out of time. The speeding train started to slow down. The landscape wasn’t passing by as fast as before. Ray knew his stop had arrived. He picked up his jacket lying on his lap.

The girl saw this, she must have thought Ray was alighting because she looked at Ray suddenly, as if alarmed. She kept on looking despite Ray not returning her stare. But Ray hadn’t noticed her. He was busy putting on his jacket. He picked up his bag and reluctantly got up, hoping the girl would get off with him also. But she was glued to her seat.

When Ray was on his two feet, his six feet figure towering over the girl, he looked down and saw the girl looking up at him. She wasn’t smiling, why should she. In fact, Ray noticed a hint of disappointment on her face. This was his moment. He had to speak to her.

But the train had already opened its doors. There was a person behind him who was also alighting, waiting for Ray to move. He looked behind, looked down again, but saw the girl had looked away. He started walking towards the exit.

As he left the station and started walking home, he realized the girl was indeed interested in him. Maybe if he’d said Hi! she’d have answered back. Anyone could lip-read that. But what had stopped him?

Despite the disappointment, Ray was happy. After more than a decade, he’d seen and liked a girl today. He’d even tired to flirt with her. It was a steep learning curve for Ray, for him to come out of his shell and learn to chat up girls. He knew that. But he made a start today. He could only improve.

And who knew, maybe he could meet the same girl again.

Under the weather

I remember reading long time back that when you’re really tired, or sick, you can’t write. Your productivity goes down to zilch. Or what you write won’t be a masterpiece. Far from it. Stay healthy.

Not that I’m a great writer, but since Sunday, my sickness has prevented exercising my writing.

It started with gastric pains Sunday evening. I’d played tennis in the evening, and was extremely hungry by the time I’d finished. Instead of enjoying a healthy meal, I went to pub and drank two pints of ale. While walking home, the pain started.

After dinner, I thought the pain would subside. I wanted to write a story, and about my Friday night when I’d been sloshed and landed on a stage where a band was playing live. The bouncers warned me. One more scene like that and I’d be thrown out like a piece of shit. I nodded. In fact, I was so drunk I was laughing. Nothing mattered.

After that, I met a girl. Both drunk, we danced, kissed, but when I suggested going home together, she vanished. In desperation, I searched inside and outside the club, and left the friend I’d come with inside the club.

I returned home disappointed. While walking, I was so tired I sat down on the curb and waited for a taxi or even a bus. At 3 a.m. there were people coming back from parties, private cars passing by, but no public transportation. I was drunk, hungry, and extremely sleepy.

I was dozing off when I heard footsteps. The road wasn’t dark. There were streetlights.

Three girls with pizzas in there hands were walking by. They looked at me and I said I’m hungry too. One of them said I could have half of her pizza. I said I’d only take if I could pay for it. She said that wasn’t necessary. I insisted. She said she’d rather not give me any then.

By now, the wonderful aroma of pizza had already infested my system. My stomach was churning. I relented. To be honest, I did feel bit like a beggar, sitting there on the curb, asking for food and not having to pay for it. But I needed to eat.

In the end, I not only got half of the mushroom pizza, another girl shared her fries also. I hugged them, saying I needed to thank them, though they weren’t particularly keen on it. After they left, I gobbled up my pizza. The bus arrived soon after that.

On Sunday evening, when I sat down to write these, I not only felt weak but I had fever also. In my quest to lose weight, I’ve been playing football and tennis. I’d sprain my hamstring on Sunday and played with the pain. Now, every bit of my body was hurting. I couldn’t move, let alone sit and type.

I took painkiller and slept.

Monday, the pain continued. No work. The whole day, I made soup and had it with bread. Today, I feel better. I’ve slept for more than 30 hours past two days. But as I write this, I’m still feeling drowsy and lethargic. Perhaps, I need more rest. I can’t afford to be sick anymore.

And no more strenuous exercise or drinking.

It's my life

When Steven’s mobile phone starting ringing he felt like throwing it away. I can’t believe this, he murmured. It was his sister. Since last night, she’d been pestering him. She’d felt voice mails and several texts.

Steven was inside a swanky bar, having just sat down with a glass of cocktail. He felt comfortable here. It’s customers were people like him, investment bankers from the City, earning six figure salaries. The drinks were overpriced. But so what, at least you avoided the hoi polloi.

I don’t really have time for this, Steven thought, as he waited for the phone to stop ringing. Last night, he’d promise his sister help. Their mother had been hospitalized with severe case of manic depression. She needed treatment in a proper clinic. And this morning, he’d already transferred money into Hayley’s account. But they still didn’t think it was enough. His mother needed his company also.

The phone stopped ringing. Steven shook his head. Drank his cocktail and relaxed on the sofa. His parents had divorced last year after his mother had stabbed Steven’s dad for having an affair. Since then, they’d both gone bonkers.

Thank god I wasn’t around, Steven thought. Living away from them felt so relaxing. He had no plans to visit them anytime soon.

Then, Steven’s face lit up. The woman he’d been waiting for finally had arrived. The leggy blonde smiled and kissed Steven.

“That felt so nice,” Steven said. They’d meet just two weeks back, and tomorrow, they were going away on a holiday. Steven could really do with it. The sun, sand and her beautiful body were no comparison to his manic mum. He didn’t even want to think of her.

The heat wave

We’re experiencing abundant blue skies these days. The mini heat wave is back. It’s as if summer is fighting the dawn of winter. I can’t let you arrive so soon, sunny days must have said, banishing rain and colder weather we feared we’d experience. We can’t complain. When summer wins, the sun shines copiously, we simply can’t complain.

But when the weather is hot outside, inside, in the underground tubes, which ferries us to work and back, it’s scorching. We enter sauna every time we travel. When the experience is over, we’re rendered with sweat soaked clothes.

Yesterday, travelling to work was even worst. I’d miscalculated the weather, donning a jacket. The trains were all running late, after encountering problems. That’s the thing with the Underground in London. When we need them to run smoothly, they invariably fail. We're either left stranded on the platform, or inside their non air-conditioned carriages.

I've also noticed the Underground makes us look like ants. In Central London, this is specially true. We come out of the holes, go to our offices to earn our living, and work done, we scurry back down the hole. Just like ants. We walk as fast as we can out in the open, as if a prey is lurking around, and only after we enter underground, in the escalator taking us down, we relax.

When I walked inside the platform today, I wasn’t relaxing. Delayed trains meant the crowd couldn’t be transported. They’d swelled and swelled, all hoping for the train to arrive. I knew I wasn’t in for a pleasant journey. I walked towards the far end of the platform, hoping for crowd to thin. No chance.

The train's arrival lead to a fracas. Everybody wanted to get on it. Nobody wanted to be late for work. But a single train wasn’t enough to accommodate all the waiting passengers. I sidled my way inside, and was sandwiched between a large, tall man, with his back towards me, and a woman.

Inside the carraige, it was so hot I felt like a potato inside an oven, waiting to be baked. In no time, my face was like a waterfall, cascading drops after drops of sweat. The train journey usual takes roughly twenty minutes. I wanted it over with in seconds.

Soon, a pungent, puckish odor from the woman’s armpit nearly fainted me. I wasn't furious, and instead, felt pity for her. From such an attractive lady, that was the last thing anybody would expect. Maybe the smell from my body was equally puckish. You never know how your body smells. All the perfumes and after shave actually doesn’t help when they mingle with so much sweat.

The further the train went, the closer the woman got pushed towards me. I was desperate. In every stop, more passengers wanted to hurled themselves inside. We got pushed and shoved. There wasn’t any space. Finally, when my stop arrived, a wave of passengers left the train. I realized, even before my day had begun, I need another shower.

Phew…I blame London Underground for our plight.

Spitalfield Market

When I walked away from Spitalfield Market yesterday, I was thinking how long one year really is. What could you accomplish in that period? We know it encompasses four seasons. 365 days. People grow a year older in that period. It's been a year since I’ve broken up and forgotten about my last affair. People get promoted, demoted, sacked, they find new jobs. People die, new kids are born. The world’s population jumps up. Iraq war lingers on, with no hope of an end. Israel has manage to invade Lebanon. All the blood shed.

I met so many new people also. I moved into to a new house, sharing it with two lovely, elderly people. Ideal for me.

So many things to think of. So many things that could happen in a year. Yet, when I went to Spitalfield Market after a year, I was amazed to see what they’d turned an old market into. I couldn’t believe you could vanish and raise huge edifice so quickly.

I was off work. My finances needed restructuring, and in Liverpool Street, I had to visit my bank. When I came out of the meeting, it was well past two. I hadn’t had lunch. Spitalfield Market is just around the corner. Five minutes walk. The food you get there, from all around the world, is an enticer for anybody.

I had Thai curry rice in mind as I made my way to the market. Through alleyways, I eventually emerged in front of the market. The southern end of the big concourse that housed the market is yet to be touched by the building works. Outside, the old façade still greets you. Inside, the crumpling roof still hangs on, hoping to dangle on until it’s replaced.

I didn’t look at the northern end as I made my way to the food stalls. My hungry mind guided me past all the antics shops (familiar theme with Portobello Market. There is something about antics that always draws me) and I made my way to the where the restaurants were located. But the number of food stalls and restaurants had dwindled as building works crept ever closer. There were less chairs, less tables, less people and less shops.

The Thai stall had disappeared. I tried Indonesia. Their curry rice would score 6 out of 10. It was tasty but a miser behind the counter had provided me food enough to fill only half my stomach. It was expensive, considering how much I'd to pay. Spitalfield Market was never costly.

Naturally, the meal didn't take ages to finish.

On my way out, I decided to see the newly constructed northern part of Spitalfield Market. I was shocked and impressed. Glass does that to you. Whether it’s the mirror you’re looking yourself at, or a window through which you can see everything. Inside the new structure, glass roof of the concourse looked down upon you. In the middle, instead of wide open spaces, they’d erected a glass building. On the ground floor of the building, all kinds of shops and restaurants had sprung up. It felt modern, like being in a City, or in a glass box.

Whenever an old building gives way to such modern structure, you inevitably end up having mix feelings. There is something about an old building you get attached to. Maybe it's because you’ve seen it for years, like your Nan or your parents. You expect it to be there. Every time. Yet, the crumbling habitations need replacing. But despite the awe the new all glass edifice gave, it still didn’t charm like the old building.

What I was most surprised by though, was the pace of the construction. I was returning after a year. Back then, this place was raucous, as if people were having a shindig, with trucks and all kinds of instruments eating down the old building. Now, a somewhat serene build stood. All in twelve months.

One year is indeed a long time.

Portobello Road

You could describe Portobello Road as a quaint street. Although it’s not old fashioned as the word may imply, it’s everything other than that. Queer, definitely, because only in this road I’ve seen houses that are coloured pink, green, and yellow, all standing next to each other. It’s strewn with antics shops. You can get items from deserts of Africa, to claws of Alaskan Polar Beer.

There are also bars and pubs dotted around the street. You can find the usual Irish pubs, selling Guinness, Spanish Tapas Bars, even Thai Curry bars, Fish bars, and swanky, modern bars as you move towards Notting Hill. A wonderful street then, if I may say, to visit when you don’t have anything to do.

Today, without work, nothing much to do, I decided to walk all the way up to Portobello Road, a drill I’d never done before. It was a typical autumn day. A mild breeze was mingling with tepid sunshine. Ideal for a walk.

From Willesden Green, where I stay, I headed towards Kensal Rise. From there, I walked downhill, and in thirty minutes, I was surprised to find myself in Portobello Road. I’d always imagined I’d take at least an hour. The exercise had however rendered me tired and hungry. Lunch sprang on my mind. I walked, looking for a restaurant to enter.

I choose a pub. It had tables and comfortable chairs outside on the pavement. While I waited for my order, I wanted to drink a pint of beer and read a book I’d brought. The place seemed perfect.

The street was busy with shoppers. Portobello Road didn’t relent even on Tuesdays, when people are suppose to be working. London is a behemoth. People work night shifts, on weekends, have weekdays off, and some are unemployed, living in benefits. There are millions of visitors. You are seldom without any company in this city.

I sat down with Newcastle Brown Ale, and started reading my book, called On Beauty. I’d ordered Bangers and Mash Potatoes. The bartender had said the pub was busy at this lunchtime, I’d have to wait twenty minutes for my order to arrive. It wasn’t a problem with me.

After five minutes, a woman approached me, saying if she could share the table I’d occupied with her. Everything outside and inside wasn’t available. I didn’t mind.

I could make out she was on a lunch break. Although, she didn’t resemble anything like a normal officer-goer. Her jeans featured two small slices on the left thigh, revealing her pale skin. Her T-shirt was red, incongruous colour for anyone working in administration. Maybe she tended one of the antics shop. She’d certainly fit in there.

She put her glass of white wine on the table and pulled out a book. This is a typical London scene. Two people very amicably sharing a table, but refusing to indulge in any short of conversation. We'd rather clutch our novels. Enjoy the read. Than talk and befriend a stranger.

When my glass was half-empty (or half full!), my order arrived. The sausages were delicious. The mash was soft, and the gravy made the whole meal delectable. I finished the food before my female company’s order arrived, and I waited for the food to settle inside my stomach, reading the book.

After that, I walked around. I visited a bargain books shop and brought a book called Being Jordan. I actually have a funny story to share regarding this book. One of my colleague, last spring, had hounded to read the book. She said it was one of the best biography she’d read. Brutally honest. I’d resisted. I wasn’t reading a biography of a glamour model I detested. However, the two pounds price tag enticed me to purchase it, even though I knew if I asked my colleague, I could borrow it free. But I’d ridicule the book and the person who wrote it, my pride held me back from asking my colleague. I also thought the book deserved to be read. Her story needed to be heard, even though, everyone else by now had read it.

So, with two books in my bag, one a much heralded work, written by one of the most talented writers in this world, and another, a confession of a glamour model, I headed home.

Good place that – Portobello Road. I’ll ask my friend to join me there next Friday. I think a night out there wouldn’t be so bad.

Saturday Fiasco, or was it?

A fifty page magazine, full of short stories written by award winning writers, one hundred twenty pages of a book, a ninety-minute movie, a football match, an hour long documentary, entitled The Doomsday Code, and a talk show – can you digest that in one day? Sounds little crazy, but yesterday, to avoid boredom, stuck in my house, in fact in my room, I ended up doing all these thing.

I had planned to play tennis, go out for drinks, and later, venture in a club for a night out. But one after another, all the plans fell by the wayside.

In the morning, I had enjoyed my breakfast of scrambled eggs, toasts, and a banana with the magazine. For full two hours, until the magazine got overrun, I didn’t get up. In between, a text arrived on my mobile phone, with the news of the cancellation of our tennis match.

Then, I moved to my room and started reading a book called On Beauty. Another hour flew by, engrossed in it. But my eyes started hurting. I switched on my laptop and watched a movie called Pride and Prejudice.

My laptop still is locked in Zone 1, by-the-way. This DVD is a gift from my departed Austrian friend. She’d made sure it was ‘all zone,’ so it would run on my laptop. She’s a very kind friend.

Lunch followed after that, and with stomach full, I went back to the book. Zadie Smith, the writer, has a knack for noticing humorous things about people. This book is satirical and sometimes extremely funny. Despite the ‘girlie’ tag the book came with, I enjoyed the read. Another hour must have flown by, before I remembered that TV was showing football matches.

While watching, I received another text from a friend asking if I could join her in Portabello market. I said after an hour. I wouldn’t miss the matches now. She couldn’t wait.

Later, while I was cooking my dinner, still reading the book, another text arrived. A friend wanted my company for a night out. I said ok. He said he’d call me at 10 p.m.

At that time, I was watching Doom's Day Cult documentary and wishing he wouldn’t call me. I was comfortable in my bed, and with fascination, was watching the documentary. The presenter swooped the world finding and interviewing cult members. From America, to Africa, to Europe, he traveled, enlightening us with the cult’s activities.

After the documentary, came the funny Jonathan Ross show. An hour eroded from my Saturday time with laughter and chuckling. By the time show finished it was almost mid-night. It was time to hit the bed.

I was mighty relieved of no telephone calls.

Good Bye

Yesterday, she was bubbling with life, visiting places, laughing, and singing. She hardly cooked. Waste of time, she said. Instead, she went out or engaged herself in long discussions. She liked to remain fit also. She jogged, swam, and walked to work, instead of taking a bus. Visiting cinemas was also part of her entertainment, she was a regular theatre-goer, and enjoyed pop as well as classical concerts. She was a picture of vigor. But today, she’s gone.

Petra, my housemate, returned to her home in Austria, the land of ‘sound of music’. And sitting in my room, writing this, I feel devoid, and this house feels soulless. The entertainer has left, and we’ll surely sink back into that world where we seldom met, except accidentally while having dinner in dining room, or while cooking in the kitchen, or sometimes, when we watched TV in the lounge instead of the privacy of our room. Petra, in her short stay, changed everything. Like bees smoked out of a hive, we came out. We gathered, laughed, and the house suddenly wasn’t a ghostly, quiet place that it used to be.

Petra is a nurse, and worked in Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead. She worked shifts, and sometimes, she got up early in the morning, or slept very late at night. When she was at home, everybody would know. A large girl, she stood 5’9, she stomped rather than walked, it was as if she had hooves, not feet.

The front door of the house always banged shut when she arrived. The lights, sometimes all of them downstairs, where the kitchen and lounge are located, would be switched on. Then, she’d marched inside the kitchen, and pots and pans would start clanging. That was typically her. She didn’t know how to do things quietly. I didn’t appreciate it initially, but when I mentioned that to her, she said sorry and laugh. Next day, she’d be back doing the same thing.

I learnt to live with that. She wasn’t staying with us for long, and the fact that, she’d always invite me to join her for dinner, made me tolerate her. We became great friends. Through her, I discovered Hampstead Heath. A park, which until now, I’d only heard of but never visited. We picnicked there, took evening strolls, watched birds, attended concerts – classical, which I thoroughly enjoyed, and also a Ronan Keating concert, which had she not beseeched me, I’d never have attended. However, despite the rain and the sludge, I enjoyed the show.

But now, the door of her room is wide open. I just got out of my room to go to loo. Swathe of sunlight is flooding the bed she used to sleep, the desk where she wrote, god knows what. The corridor, which at this time used to be dim, is bright as the light escapes from her room. But my heart is heavy. I’m missing her. This house too. I’ve never met a girl like her, chances are, I won’t also. She is special.

Hollywood O Hollywood

I know a person who like me has strong aversions for Hollywood movies. Actually, he was the one, when we discussed movies and characters, who taught me to see Hollywood for what it is. I can understand now why he’d rather watch an amateur video than the violence, lust, and larger-than-life action heroes of Hollywood.

It’s only been about three months now, since I’ve vanquished Hollywood movies from my itinerary of enjoyment. I’ve gone to film festivals and watched low budget movies, hired lots of Indie movies, and seen lots of foreign movies. It’s been one helluva exercise. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the diversity I’ve encountered. The plethora of lives, characters, plots I’ve views has been very uplifting. You only need to get out of that Terminator mindset and look where you land.

Yesterday night, for the umpteenth time, I watched: You and Me and Everyone We Love. It’s an American movie, not Hollywood. The director, the writer, and one of the main actors are the same person. She’s some talent. It’s about two people who have difficulty separating reality from their own muddled thought process. They do strange things, unaware that people might be aghast with their endeavours, and in the process, fall in love in a very strange way. Have a go at it. It’s just very funny and really nice.

But it seems now, Hollywood, the infamous giant that it is, has gotten back to me.

DVDs were hailed all over the world when they came out. There was no format on them, unlike in tapes. A DVD produced in Timbuktu could be viewed in Alaska or in Argentina. But Hollywood didn’t like this setup. The reason - their movies released in America could easily be smuggled to all corners of the world, before they could officially released it elsewhere. Hence, they divided the world in several regions. The UK and Western Europe is region 2, America is region 1, and the Asia is 4.

It’s difficult getting multi-regional DVD players. In my laptop, every time I played CSI DVDs send from America by my sister, a software popped open, indicating I needed to change region. When I played something from UK, again I had to change region. After five changes, the software announced I’d exceeded the limit of changes I was allowed. No more. My laptop is now locked in region 1, and I can’t play any movies from rest of the world. How unfair is this?

The world tackles drug cartels, slams gambling conglomerates, wants to curve the influence of big multi-national companies, I think they should start to gaze at what Hollywood has been doing also. I am very angry at the moment, and want to really bring down the ugly beast.

Twisted dreams.

Yesterday, the gods must have been delighted with the residents of Queens Park. On the day the Park was organizing Queens Park Day, the sun shone brilliantly. A mild breeze kept the temperature to a manageable level, and this meant the crowd turned out in full force. The Park was bustling.

The lion share of the entertainments were focused towards the children. There were donkey rides, football tutorials, cat race, rock climbing, comedy shows, and beauty contest for ten-year-olds. The adults had their fare share of amusement also.

I arrived very early. At nine, the tennis courts welcomed all who’d turned up. A tennis tournament was being held. The entry was free.

I warmed up, hitting few balls, and was arranged to tackle a fifty-year-old veteran. We were playing only a set, and the idea was to have fun rather than take it seriously. But when you're playing a match, your winning mentality takes over, and any idea of having fun and losing, is thrown out of the window. I took no chances and swept fifty-year-old dad of five children aside in no time.

Then, after a breather, I took on another elderly gentleman. I was like Roger Federer in front of him. I felt sorry for him as I hit one winner after another, and finished the match.

Then, I came up with a fit, tall, and young girl. I’d never seen her before, and I was very nervous starting out. Losing to a member of female sex was out of question. Just imagine the amount of ridiculous I’d suffer, if I told my friends of the defeat.

But, she was a very good player. We traded shots after shots, and I was actually amazed by how competitive she was. She really wanted to win. I was terrified.

She ran me around the court. I did the same. It was tit-for-tat. The feisty girl had a double-handed backhand and grunted with every shots. She served well enough, although they weren’t very powerful.

When the game reached halfway point, the scores were level. One who’d raised their game, who made few mistakes, would take it. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like Roger Federer. I remembered Billie Jean King and her tennis match against a male player. She’d beaten him. She was hailed all over the world. The battle of sexes had gone to Billie Jean, a female.

I quickly banished all these thoughts. It wouldn’t be happening to me. I was better than my opponent.

I then tossed a ball high and served. She hit a good reply. I had to run hard and stretch to return the ball. And OUCH! While running I twisted my ankle. The pain was immediate and very excruciating. I even cried as I fell down

She ran over and helped me limp over to a bench. After five minutes rest I tried to walk again. But the ankle had swollen and I couldn’t rest my weight on it. Returning to playing tennis was out of question. We shook hands and abandoned the match.

In a way, I was glad I’d twisted the ankle. I wasn’t sure I’d win the match. It was all sweat and fun, but losing was unthinkable. I’m sure she didn’t mind also. Her feisty nature meant defeat would have caused an enormous dent to her ego. Nobody won. That, I guess was the best result.

In the afternoon, a band was playing blues and jazz music in the park. There were food stalls, and for the revelers, beers were available, although all at exorbitant prices. I limped around and enjoyed everything.

A great day.

A room with a view.

My favourite picture, Steven Gerrard lifting the European Cup for Liverpool, hangs unchallenged on the left wall of my bedroom. The ecstasy on Gerrard’s face recounts the story of that magical night in Istanbul. What a roller coaster the game was! Even farcical the way goals were scored and the eventual outcome favoured us. Just watching it left me mentally and physically drained, as if I’d run a marathon and been kissed by a beauty queen at the same time.

Someone once said to me, Liverpool is a lousy club now. They lose all time. Change you club.

I asked him a question in return. “Would you change you mother if she let you down? If she was not up to the mark sometimes”

He didn’t utter a word. His silence spoke of his shock of what I’d just said. I’ve supported and loved Liverpool all my life. Anyway, the club is a living, breathing legend. Not some history, living in its past glory.

In my room, at the opposite side of the wall, a window is located. If you stand in the garden below and look up, you can see Gerrard’s picture.

During summers, the sash window is over worked. Every evening after I return from work, I pull it up. A mild wind is always swooping around in London. To have them inside my room feels fresh, as if my place is part of a nature, not of some ugly concrete building.

In the morning, I pull it down. Lock it up properly and leave. I can’t afford to have my possession stolen, especially the picture.

A reading table stands in front of the window and makes reaching it cumbersome. I have to stretch, I even got cramp in my back doing it. It was painful. Sometimes, our body doesn’t adjust well after a day of mind stretching at work.

But on the plus side, when I become tired after Iv'e sat on a chair, open my laptop, which is on top of the table, and typed, I can stare out of the window and relax. Outside, flowers abound in our verdant garden. Trees line the compound. On them, the singing birds soothe my tired mind. Sometimes, I’ve listened to them for hours.

Last winter, around one a.m. I was typing a story. My mind was racing, thinking of all the interesting things my character could do in the story. My fingers were flying on the keyboard. A song was softly bellowing from my laptop, and I’d opened the window, as my room had turned into a sauna, since I’d left the radiator running during the day.

When the song finished, I was rudely interrupted by noises coming from the garden. Someone was rummaging through something. Either neighbour’s bin or something in our compound. A thief, maybe a person with a gun or a knife might be around. I immediately closed the window and pulled the curtains. I even switched off the light and stared out of the window, hoping I wouldn’t be spotted and shot.

The full moon was shining brightly. I could see the garden below and my landlady’s favourite room, her conservatory. What if it was a thief? What should I do? Should I call the police?

Then, I saw who it was. On the green grass, the brown body shined on the moonlight as it trotted away and climbed the fence. It was a fox. The most ubiquitous animal in London.

I didn’t go back to my writing. Instead, shaking my head, I brushed my teeth and slept.

The window is my favourite place in my room, and my room is my favourite place in the world. I’ll tell more about it next time.

Tony Blair learnt French in school. But he's the Prime Minister of UK and he doesn’t need to use the language. Last time he conversed in French was with the President of France. Six months have flown by since that meeting. He’s spoken nothing but politics and English after that.

Today, he said something like, how you are.

Danielle, my landlady laughed. I was standing next to her and grimaced in discomfort. She said, “I’ve lived in London for a long, long time. I have to impress you with my English, not the other way around.”

It was the Prime Minister’s turn to laugh. After he stopped, she said, “Please take a seat.”

He looked behind at the large armchair. It was pure leather, beige colour. About fifty years old. Like everything in this house, vintage stuff.

He then fiddled the knot of his tie, pursed his lips, and sat down.

Tony Blair was in our living room. A surprise visit. It’s election time and he’s visiting houses randomly. Today, our house got picked. At nine in the morning, I was enjoying coffee with Danielle in the kitchen when the doorbell had chimed. She attended the door. Then shouted, “You’re not fake, are you?”

He wasn’t. Tony Blair walked in after shaking hands with Danielle, and promising he would only occupy fifteen minutes of our time.

Now, five minutes later, after ushering him into the living room, our shock has settled. I don’t vote. Neither does my landlady. Labour Party is loathed in this house. But we had to treat our guest well.

The living room wasn’t an idea place to accommodate Tony’s entourage. Although it was bathed in warm sunshine, it was small. There were two armchairs placed next to a large window, overlooking the street outside. A small sofa stood next to it. It was meant for two and was already occupied with Tony’s press secretariat. I was about settle at the other end. Danielle was readying herself to capture the vacant armchair.

In front of us, a TV was reflecting our images. I noticed Brain, the secretariat, on it. He arranging his black, pulled back hair with his right hand. A sketchpad occupied his left hand.

On the left side, at the far end of the room, a dining table stood, surrounding on all sides by four wooden chairs. Two gentlemen of contrasting semblance stood next to them.

One of them donned a dark blue suit and he looked like a security personal. His face was angular, gaunt, but the rest of his figure told his story. Looking down, your eyes were immediately assaulted by the size of his neck. Resembled hypo’s body. His fingers were almost double my size, in length and thickness. And his muscular body looked as if any moment it might burst out from his clothes. Then, at the bottom, his size 16 boots looked like SUVs parked in our living room.

The other gentlemen had a walrus moustache. In jeans, he carried a SLR camera, and was readying himself to take shots.

Tony delved his hand inside his jacket’s pocket. Before he could take it out, Danielle asked, “So, what can we do for you?”

He’d earlier agreed to enjoy the ground coffee we were sipping. The mug now stood on top of a coaster, on the mahogany table next to his chair.

“Actually, I wanted to know what you thought of Gordon Brown,” he said.

“He’s a loser,” Danielle said. Despite being one of many non-voting hoi polloi, she took deep interest in politics. Tony instantly smirked.

“Loser like you,” Danielle said.

The smirked disappeared.

“I’m paying way too much tax. Actually, I’m thinking of moving back to France. It’s too much here.”

“Oh,” Tony said, shifting his sitting position. The wide armchair gave him plenty of opportunity to do that. He took his hand out of his pocket. A small, miniature bottle of vodka appeared on his hand.

He opened the cap and drank, in one big swig. “Ok, you can criticise me now,” he said.

Danielle, who like me was watching in shock the liquor disappear inside Tony’s throat, stirred to life. She slapped the Prime Minister, not once but twice.

“What was that for?” Tony demanded. A strong smell of vodka wafted across the room.

“For wasting my coffee and drinking your lousy, cheap Russian drink instead,” she said.

“I was about to drink that,” he said. “Oh god, I need to drink another one now. Or, I’ll have to sue you for hitting me, and I don’t want to do that.”

The press secretariat shouted, “Prime Minister!”

The SUVs shifted on the carpet. The photographer took pictures, and I, I just wanted to wake up. This wasn’t happening.

The Prime Minister took two bottles out of his other pocket, and handed one to me, saying. “Come on, mate. It’s Sunday. How about an early start?”

“Why not,” I said. “But can I slap you too?”

With in seconds, the SUVs kick started. The humongous hands grabbed and jerked me. Shook me like a tree caught in a cyclone. I dropped the bottle, shouted, “Tony, help me.”

The Prime Minister yelled, “I want a slam dunk.”

I was hoisted high up. My nose almost touched the ceiling. I tried to grab whatever I could. There were no wires on the ceil. It was as smooth as an ice rink. Anyway, who could resist the force of this security guard.

I hear walrus’ camera clicking, the unabated laughter of the Prime Minister, and a whimp, muffled cries of my landlady. Just before I came crashing down, I saw Brian all over my landlady.

I had revenge in my mind as my bones shattered into million pieces. The concrete floor ruptured, creating a crack deep enough to bury me. I went into the abyss and disappeared for next two hours, until I got up from my dream.

Thank god for that!

The Special Two

I like songs sung with passion. As if the singer’s life is at stake. Like they feel deeply for what they’re singing, be it pain, love, or hopeless abandonment. Even in poems and stories, the discharge of outburst grabs your attention, makes you read that same stuff time and again.

Speeches are another thing. Imagine some old fart rumbling on and on, about a distance past which no one has any idea. You’re guaranteed a yawn. Seats will start to be vacated. Soon, the whole stadium might turn empty.

Would an audience dare do the same thing if a speech, fiery or emotional, strikes code with them? No way.

For last two months, I’ve listened to a song called ‘The Special Two’ by Missy Higgins almost 200 times. Even at work, when I'm inside the loo, I switch it on and listen. I’ve got the song in my mobile phone. The more I listen the more I like. The reason: it’s filled with passion.

She’s a little known Australian singer. One of my friends who returned from ‘down under’ had recommended me. I had reservations. Since when has an Australian singer interested me? Kylie Minogue bored me to death. She’s no different from the usual garbage: Madonna, Britney Spears.

Natalie Imbruglia was the only one I liked, even though, at alarming rate her standards have dipped. Her last album was rubbish. But oh, there is off course AC/DC. One of my favourite band. An exception then.

Some of the songs in Missy Higgin's album are really good. I was impressed with her, first time round. I checked her website and found Scar was her first hit single. It’s a good song. That was followed by ‘The special two’. It had remained in the charts for donkeys months in Australia. That fact made me more aware of the song's reputation. And ever since then, as I listened again and again, I’ve become pretty much hooked to it.

It’s about a song of lost. She wants to get back with her lover. She sings about the lies she told, the cheating she did, and even suggests bleeding together, if faced with separation again. It’s confessional. It’s about honesty. It’s intense. The ardour of the lyrics, her style and her voice makes you glued to the song.

And it does strike code with me. Wonder why.