Since there’s no Bin to access at home, I do my research on the Internet. I’ve also managed to read some more entries on Vindaloo & Vibrators. While the blog seems to get juicier with each post, I still don’t know what story I can make out of the whole thing.

I’m about to read a post titled Kaama versus Maama when Dragon walks into my room.

‘Polly beta,’ Dragon says, dripping sweetness, ‘I nearly forgot with all that maid drama—I had to give you something …’

She holds a shoe-box that has little hearts painted on it and is tied with a beautiful red ribbon.

‘Here you go, child,’ Dragon says and puts the box on the bed, next to my feet.

‘These are Sid’s things from his college days—letters, cards and some photographs, I think. Sid really treasured them, especially the photographs of that girl he really loved … She was so beautiful and so fair, such lovely skin,’ Dragon says. ‘Anyway, let me not keep you from work. But you should not work so hard, beta, it does horrible things to your skin.’

My first instinct is to throw the box and its contents into the dustbin. I don’t do it, though. I stare at it warily instead.

If Dragon is giving it up so willingly, it can’t possibly be anything good.

Should I open it? Do I really want to know about some woman Sid loved?

Vindaloo & Vibrators

Get them by the balls & their hearts & minds will follow

BLOG ARCHIVES

2009 (33)

2010 (33)

January (18)

February (4)

March (10)

April (1)

Kaama versus Maama

1,50,288 HITS

Kaama versus Maama

I woke up one morning, thought you loved me;
I realized soon it was to be a joke.
I woke up one morning, felt you’d become kinder;
You told me you’d been too drunk.
I woke up one morning, wished my beauty would blind you;
I figured later I don’t want to be ugly for you anymore.
I woke up one morning, found you sleeping next to another;
I loathe waking up every day.

I’m shit at poetry. I’m shit at a whole lot of other things. I don’t stitch, garden or bake muffins. I’m a mediocre cook and I like it that way. Fuck muffins. I don’t bother about making my home pretty. I hate being given flowers—they’re a mess you have to clean up in a week. I don’t fret over the perfect washing detergent. There are drycleaners. I don’t keep in touch with my relatives. I don’t care for their birthdays or anniversaries. I don’t call my parents because I suck at small talk.