deviousways

He is staring at me. I can sense it. I look up but his eyes are vacant. There is no life, no light. He is just a hollow shell of a man.  My father was not always like this. As a little girl, I trembled if he glanced my way. What if it was me, I'd worry, what if I was the chosen one, and what if it was not... my mother? But she usually was. Nothing she did was ever good enough. Either the tea was lukewarm or too hot. Or too sweet. Undrinkable, either way. If the rotis were warm, the bhaji was salty or spicy or something. Always something. Anything. "What is this s*%*t you've made today. How can anyone drink/eat such filth?", he'd shout. Then he'd remove his belt. Take off his shirt too. All the better to teach us a lesson.  Why did my mother, a school teacher, stay with him? I do not know. She had a job, she was Teacher Madam for all the children in the neighbourhood. But the other women, they knew. I am sure their husbands did too. They must have see...

Two friends and I were walking in the park one evening. We all live in the neighbourhood so it's fun to catch up with them, listen to stories of everyday encounters, who said what, when, where. And more. Richard's Park has narrow pathways, so it's difficult to walk in threes. Invariably I'm running to keep up with the other two. This, in turn, involves dodging other walkers, overtaking the slow-strollers, and speedily skirting various objects located by the side of the pathways. Anyway, what all this means is that all of us walk pretty fast--which of course is great exercise. Gossip and fast talk, it's an amazing combination! So I was doing my regular intricate stepping-around dance after my friends, when we came upon a man moving very slowly. He was coming in the opposite direction so I could see that he walked with a hand pressed to his right side. Initially I thought he had hurt himself. Then I realised he had a physical deformity--his leg was slightly twiste...