There is a plum ,firm and round, in my pocket. It was given to me by my love but I had forgotten about the fruit. Sitting in the packed minibus, I felt something slipping out of my pocket, caught it before it fell out. At first I thought it was a stress ball from the office. But with the knowledge that with each feel I’m making the plum less firm and round, I decided to leave the fruit be, and sipped my bottled tea. Each swallow of the now tepid liquid on my harsh throat was like a plot of neglected land with flowers growing wild, budding, blossoming and then wilting.
Could not drown the noises of the bus as my walkman had no power. So I listened to the rhythmic sounds of the chatting Bangladeshis. First I listened to find any repeating words that would be a way for me to know the topic of their discussion, a place, a name, anything that would help, alas no, the language was opaque to me. Everything sounds like the repetitions of the same syllables, just in different combination. Then I remembered snatches of the bits of what I knew of Bangladesh’s history. How wanting to make their language the official language of their country actually started the secession of their country from Pakistan’s rule at the cost of three million lives. So let them talk in their language all they like, they have earned it.
Got off the bus, waited for my ride, ate the plum and played some New Super Mario on a loaned DS lite, trying to remain inconspicuous among the crowd.
Six foot me with a portable game machine, leaning on a column, eating a fruit. Like a fruit among vegetables, the same but different. Leave the fruit be.
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