motordreaming

there's something about little india that makes it a great joy working here at the inncrowd. it's the swash and the wash of humanity; the lingering of body odour from foreign workers, watching them tired, sweaty, dirty but very happy (or terribly unhappy and Angry sometimes); it's the vagueness of what everyone else is saying, and the opacity of even the language which they speak; it's the romance of baskets of unknown produce from an unknown land feeding an unknown man with an unknown family in an even further land. the streets on sunday become the campus for thousands of foreign workers, who gather here like posing schoolboys, to see and be seen and to eat and drink and look at the local produce of the female kind; five-foot ways lining the streets become opium dens for friends to gather around a spread of thali, cheap beer and the kind of mirth that comes with long-awaited idle.

it's no wonder then, that something always happens while i'm making my way to work every day. it's in the smile of a bemused traveller, the different way a shop looks today, the concert down in the open space, or the man dead pissed and out cold on clive and campbell. tonight on the bus 67 there, i fall asleep as always and dream of the road. im running past a busy road, but am too slow, and am knocked down by a motorbike in the last lane. everyone gathers around to help me and i laugh because maybe i'm dying. the crowd clears for the motorcyclist who knocked me down and it's... rudy.