I've always been poor with languages. Unlike so many of you who are able to dissect the world into neat multi-syllable words that you ate for lunch in that tiny foreign restaurant just around the corner I struggle with my daily bread. It's often coarse and hurts your delicate palate yet my mother cannot teach me more sophisticated ways of cooking anymore.
I mixed jaggery with bananas for lunch today.
It was sweet and had a smell of a village house. We ate it together - you and I and then the story came to sit down by our side. We gave her a cup of tea. She was feminine for sure - the story I mean, the tea was more masculine in nature - black with lemon and just a single spoon of sugar in it.
She was distressed she said. I asked her why, but she remained silent for a long time.
A man was passing by. He was carrying his proposal for a government grant for a revolutionary project about the art of storytelling. We offered him tea, yet he refused. He was too busy comparing grant opportunities offered by some far away countries and the discussion had to turn towards the semantics of proposal writing. The story was silent. I think she turned her head away.
A lizard climbed inside a paper lampshade. I could see each part of her body being lit. Black mark of ink on red paper.
The project was intense. It was based on the concept of taking the words out from random pages of a dictionary and applying them to white sheets of paper. The task was so deep that the participants began to worry if they manage to stay with it for the whole day.
A tiny fish touched my foot as I stood in the blue waters. I giggled in response. The butterfly flapped its blue and black wings. I watched it hiding in the grass.
The project was a success. New methodologies of the art of story writing were invented and all the participants discussed the lack of such way of communication in our culture. Apparently we sold everything to cater for the foreign tastes. Disturbing... don't you think?
The dogs barked. I patted one of them. He licked my hand.
The man got up. He was in hurry to finish his project before the dead line. It was important. The future of mankind could be depending on it.
She opened her mouth but could not say any word. They got stuck somewhere near the larynx. She coughed. And coughed. And coughed. And... and each time her torso was torn by the spasm her body would shrink a bit. She was becoming smaller and smaller until she became an almost invisible point hidden between the dust of the earth.
The cup of tea stayed on the table.
And you and I engrossed in our thoughts about the art of story telling...
I mixed jaggery with bananas for lunch today.
It was sweet and had a smell of a village house. We ate it together - you and I and then the story came to sit down by our side. We gave her a cup of tea. She was feminine for sure - the story I mean, the tea was more masculine in nature - black with lemon and just a single spoon of sugar in it.
She was distressed she said. I asked her why, but she remained silent for a long time.
A man was passing by. He was carrying his proposal for a government grant for a revolutionary project about the art of storytelling. We offered him tea, yet he refused. He was too busy comparing grant opportunities offered by some far away countries and the discussion had to turn towards the semantics of proposal writing. The story was silent. I think she turned her head away.
A lizard climbed inside a paper lampshade. I could see each part of her body being lit. Black mark of ink on red paper.
The project was intense. It was based on the concept of taking the words out from random pages of a dictionary and applying them to white sheets of paper. The task was so deep that the participants began to worry if they manage to stay with it for the whole day.
A tiny fish touched my foot as I stood in the blue waters. I giggled in response. The butterfly flapped its blue and black wings. I watched it hiding in the grass.
The project was a success. New methodologies of the art of story writing were invented and all the participants discussed the lack of such way of communication in our culture. Apparently we sold everything to cater for the foreign tastes. Disturbing... don't you think?
The dogs barked. I patted one of them. He licked my hand.
The man got up. He was in hurry to finish his project before the dead line. It was important. The future of mankind could be depending on it.
She opened her mouth but could not say any word. They got stuck somewhere near the larynx. She coughed. And coughed. And coughed. And... and each time her torso was torn by the spasm her body would shrink a bit. She was becoming smaller and smaller until she became an almost invisible point hidden between the dust of the earth.
The cup of tea stayed on the table.
And you and I engrossed in our thoughts about the art of story telling...
