Picture The Boy – no older than 20- rolling a blunt on a wooden coffee table. He’s in a bedsit in Roysambu; small windows, cheap curtains, wooden door. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans,
What’s the lifespan of chicken? Well, it doesn’t matter because all of my mother’s chicken are gone. The chicken-pen – a small wooden structure that the local boys built as my mother sat on the verandah sipping her tea in the bright midday sunlight of shags- now houses new chicken with a new mistress.
I am involved in a project where I interview artists – singers, sculptors, painters, dancers, virtuosos in the form of children who play the hell out of a violin, animators – a project commissioned by the Godown Arts Center.
“He’s rich and old,” I tell my friend Gina.
“You mean rich but old?” She asks from the carpet where she’s seated between my knees. I’m helping her undo her braids. She’s in this team natural group where they occasionally meet in a garden to drink rosé and talk about children and men,
I wake up very early on Sabbath. It’s quiet and drizzling lightly outside. Perfect morning; the phone isn’t ringing yet, the people on Whatsapp Groups who have an opinion on everything haven’t woken up yet,
What does human flesh taste like?
Everybody I tell this story thinks I should have asked her this question. At some point I began to think that maybe I should have asked her.