Fiction & Poetry

This is a piece I wrote as part of a university assignment for my life writing module. The idea was to conjour up atmosphere in under 300 words.  The inspiration for the piece was an Indian restaurant which I used to pass late on a Monday evening on my way home from a late class.  It was situated right next to the traffic lights which I inevitably caught on red. Although it didn’t open for business on Mondays there was always a light which glowed orange at the back of the restaurant and a lone elderly man could be seen on a low seat.

Mr Rajapoori, proprietor and proud host of the Raj Tandoori Restaurant shares stories. Not stories of the ‘Once upon a time, happy ever after’ variety, but stories told with such eloquence that they bear no resemblance to any tale you heard before.

“Welcome to the most splendid Raj Tandoori Restaurant. Come in, sit down,” says Mr Rajapoori.

Rest in the luxuriant magnificence of jewelled cushions: rich reds run through with shimmering gold and purples so deep they might almost be black – shot silk glinting with the bluest of greens.

The lights are low, the music a background sound; a melodious harmony of sitar and the tinntinabulation of the  ghungharu.  Dancers move gracefully amongst you, entrancing, ethereal in their gossamer fine saris of silk in amethyst and azure, carmine and crimson, drifting weightlessly as they glide past.

There is no menu; you cannot know before you enter which tasty morsels might be proffered. Arrive, be seated, and when Mr Rajapoori deems a sufficiency of diners, he will begin, mesmerising  with hypnotic voice –  tales of childhood, of luck and love, temples and treasures, intrigue and suspense , his words as rich and sweet as honey.  Prepare for enchantment; be amazed. Relish the heavenly offerings, rich with saffron, fragrant spices to ignite your tastebuds, coriander and cumin,  the aroma of clove, the  piquancy of hot and fiery ginger. Each dish an aromatic masterpiece.

And much later, leave rested; equilibrium magically restored.

So where might you find this cornucopia of epicurean delight?  I cannot tell you for it exists only for those prepared to chance labyrinthine alleys not taken before, those who are open to untried avenues might serendipitously happen upon it. Close your eyes, breathe slowly and dream.

 

A short story by me, as published today in the West Country regional newspaper The Western Morning News.

If asked to describe Mavis Middleton, you’d be hard pushed to say more than, ‘She’s a mousey sort of woman’, because that’s the perfect description of Mavis and in her fifty nine years no-one’s ever noticed much about her at all. George, her husband, wooed and married her to get his hands on her father’s business and from the day Mavis’s father died, George has barely uttered a civil word to her.  He keeps a roof over her head and makes her a monthly allowance which covers the cost of their food and very little else . With careful budgeting, she manages to clothe herself from the stores at the cheaper end of town. She cuts her own hair and has never been able to afford a colour. George, on the other hand, has appearances to keep up and is partial to a nice bit of cashmere and a well cut suit with a five button cuff,  preferably from the Mayfair Tailors which, as you might guess, resides some way from the cheap end of town.