There was an article in the papers a few days ago about how much the Japanese enjoy Indian curries. Here's the article:
http://www.telegraphindia.com/1081003/jsp/nation/story_9922257.jsp
So, it was no wonder I chanced upon a manga which has curry as it's main plotline: Addicted to Curry is the story of Sonezaki Yui, a schoolgirl, whose father is the owner of Curry House Cooking Ganesha. The curry house is going out of business, but a saviour emerges in the form of dashing master-chef Koenji Makito, who turns things around for the shop. The manga also offers simple recipes curry fans can try themselves! Read in on onemanga.com:
http://www.onemanga.com/Addicted_to_Curry/
Friday, 24 October 2008
Friday, 17 October 2008
A garland of orange
A garland of orange-colour blossoms swings in the jerky motions of the bus. They look new, freshly bought from the local flower-wallah with the pot-belly and the betel-stained teeth. Marigolds: too bright for the diminutive, faded idol that drowned in their fragrance, unnoticed by the pious multitude. Only I saw her give a crooked smile.
Take me away from this narrow space. Let me not feel the raw bared rusted fangs that prick my translucent membrane, spilling pink blood. Let me not feel this cramped half-life, where to straighten up is to feel pain. The metal pushes against my delicate spine, frail and brittle, threatening to snap it in two. Would I die instantly? Or would I jerk about like a headless chicken, as my nervous system went into involuntary spasms, trying to go on living a life that had long been dead?
The bulbs are too bright, the head of oiled hair before me too dark; this life too empty. I had vomited out what was left of my soul on the pavement before I boarded this bus. It must have been the phuchka, so tangy I almost enjoyed it; followed by some oversweet milky tea from the footpath. I had wiped the last dribbling bits of blood-stained bile from my lips with my new white hanky (not white any longer) and stood up, pushing against the whirling crowd which, like a pack of sharks has singled out the weak one and trampled it into the ground, almost.
I look at the flowers with a disdainful half-grin. I want to spit on them, like the oily-headed girl sitting before just did, through the window, into the blurred world outside. The floating world outside is streaked orange from the lamps, like marigold petals sprinkled over the filthy mud, one with plastic bags, old toffee wrappers and bits of broken old clay teacups. Only some feral child had rubbed his unvaccinated feet into them. Yes, the world outside was the pasty orange of nocturnia.
The garland swings cheerfully as the driver jams down on the brakes hard. My forehead smashes into the stainless steel bar on the seat in front, staining it temporarily with pink blood that sprays from my burst vein. “Last stoppage,” shrieks the conductor, as this ghastly orange world is smeared with my pink. At last.
Take me away from this narrow space. Let me not feel the raw bared rusted fangs that prick my translucent membrane, spilling pink blood. Let me not feel this cramped half-life, where to straighten up is to feel pain. The metal pushes against my delicate spine, frail and brittle, threatening to snap it in two. Would I die instantly? Or would I jerk about like a headless chicken, as my nervous system went into involuntary spasms, trying to go on living a life that had long been dead?
The bulbs are too bright, the head of oiled hair before me too dark; this life too empty. I had vomited out what was left of my soul on the pavement before I boarded this bus. It must have been the phuchka, so tangy I almost enjoyed it; followed by some oversweet milky tea from the footpath. I had wiped the last dribbling bits of blood-stained bile from my lips with my new white hanky (not white any longer) and stood up, pushing against the whirling crowd which, like a pack of sharks has singled out the weak one and trampled it into the ground, almost.
I look at the flowers with a disdainful half-grin. I want to spit on them, like the oily-headed girl sitting before just did, through the window, into the blurred world outside. The floating world outside is streaked orange from the lamps, like marigold petals sprinkled over the filthy mud, one with plastic bags, old toffee wrappers and bits of broken old clay teacups. Only some feral child had rubbed his unvaccinated feet into them. Yes, the world outside was the pasty orange of nocturnia.
The garland swings cheerfully as the driver jams down on the brakes hard. My forehead smashes into the stainless steel bar on the seat in front, staining it temporarily with pink blood that sprays from my burst vein. “Last stoppage,” shrieks the conductor, as this ghastly orange world is smeared with my pink. At last.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
20 SE
The Twentieth Year of the Sharadian Era
I, the Grand High Master Sharados of JUDEaea, Emperor of the Galaxy, Devourer of Worlds, am pleased to announce the completion of the twentieth sun-cycle of my being. Praise my glorious perfidy and insiduous splendour!
I, the Grand High Master Sharados of JUDEaea, Emperor of the Galaxy, Devourer of Worlds, am pleased to announce the completion of the twentieth sun-cycle of my being. Praise my glorious perfidy and insiduous splendour!
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