Yesterday, I wrote the first of two posts about the anomalous attention paid to (in that case) two brown actresses by the popular “Go Fug Yourself” blog. Fluffy as that post might have seemed, the discussion it prompted was by no means insignificant. My delayed epiphany about Mindy and Parminder was inpsired by their skin, specifically, how it didn’t conform to what much of the diaspora considers beautiful. It was the color of their skin and I know fellow older alt-music fans, it wasn’t black metallic.
This Friday, my thoughts move aimlessly, passing so many things: beauty, skin, pigmentation, fireworks, torture, St. Catherine of Alexandria. Perhaps your mind is similarly adrift– if so, write. Write about any and all of the above, or none of it if it doesn’t move you. The important thing is that you write a very short story, a tale so brief, it is composed of exactly 55 words. Ah, this Friday wanes, my energy with it…think of me when I’m sleeping. Of all the secrets that I’m keeping, some of which, I promise, will surface below…but only after you spill yours, my dears.
It is three in the morning. It is way past my bedtime. I do not like the club scene but for some reason have spent the last four hours in a club. The world is going to hell in a handcart. There is a fracas afoot on my favorite blog. Can’t we all just get along?
Torture is of many types; the torture of unrequited love is perhaps more painful than most.
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They had taken her in as an orphaned waif; she had grown up with their children, a second sister to their son.
On his wedding day, the boisterous baratis discussed the bride’s beauty and she bantered with them. Then, in a moment of quiet, she found herself thinking: “he would have been happier with me”.
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And what about the torture of not knowing who you are? Here’s a 55-fiction piece on identity.
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He tried on various superhero suits (Superman, Spiderman, Batman, Captain America, even Green Hornet), but none of them felt right.
Depressed, he wandered around the Superhero Suit Mart, until he saw it in a side aisle.
He put on the suit, untied his ponytail and cracked the whip for effect. It was perfect.
Wonder Woman!
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Or the torture of knowing that you are not what you want to be, the torture of being stuck in ‘Trishanku’s Heaven‘ (here and here):
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“Help me!!!” a woman’s voice shattered the silence of the night.
Garib Mohan raced his auto-rickshaw towards the beautiful woman surrounded by four goondas. One elegant curve of the rickshaw and all four goondas were lying supine on the ground.
“Thank you,” she sighed, as she stepped out of the rickshaw into the bright sunlight.
––-*-
“Weblogs offers bloggers $1,000 per month for their social-bookmarking rights.”
$1000. $1000. $1000. The number repeated in his mind, multiplied like a viral code.
He thought of his yacht moored on the trendy Mediterranean coast, the Dom Pérignon flute in his hand and the bevy of beauties around him… and posted another link at PutVote.
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Fairer Like Her
A young pretty, fair, 7-8 year old Muslim girl at Charminar. At the minaret staircase.
“Is she a Hindu?” pointing to the bindi on Marta’s forehead. “She is enamored by you.” “No, she is enamored by the way you are talking.” “Will I become fairer like her, if I go to Amreeka?”
I just smile.
Sometimes, however, even though we try very hard to torture ourselves, fate intervenes (here):
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He met her for the first time at a play at Prithvi.
They were on a double date; their lovers were ex-lovers themselves and this could have been awkward. However, they found themselves laughing at the same lines.
When the four of them watched another play at Prithvi next week, they had already switched partners.
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A Catherine Wheel shout out? I just have to admire that for a while before I attempt a 55. I just hit play on my stereo at 2a.m. Oh hell. I’ll share: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hu1IyWdsRgw
And, finally a 55-fiction piece about “beauty, skin, pigmentation”, and being brown: “The Yard-boy“.
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She sat on the window ledge and looked longingly at his lean muscled body, his light flowing mane, his smooth white skin, so different from her own long black hair and supple brown skin.
“Nothing good will come out of this”, she chastised herself, not for the first time, “falling in love with an albino!”
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She’s My Friend
Gazing at his shoes, he senses that the brown-skinned slip of a girl has arrived at the foot of the stage. He can’t believe the backpack made it through security. “Sure you want to do this?” he asks nervously, after the set. “You say it’s easy when it’s faster,” she sighs, handing him the gun.
buzz…
“Stay out of the sun, Nandini ! You’re black enough already !”
The reflex admonishments were already tiresome for the 12-year-old; the problems that would be encountered in finding a husband…..Constant comparisons to her “prettier” sister…..
Photographers always noticed the mysterious secret smile as she strode down the New York catwalk a decade later.
After much zigzagging, the taxi came to an abrupt halt in traffic. Children suddenly swarmed the car, reaching in through the window with the hope of securing a handout. One arm, lighter in skin tone than the others, stood out from the rest.
Bechari, Mrs. Sharma thought to herself, as she reached into her purse.
I tried to get as black and metallic as possible.