Snapshot 3
"...But I love him." Told the White woman hugging latte with her fists.
"No. No. No. Jesus is love; love for the supreme. Those we cannot see." Told a Black woman, lovely body.
—"I can't see him now."
"Be serious. I will only love two men; my father and Jesus Christ."
"You don't know what it feels like to be away for so long from somebody who you need in necessity. No contact with at all. Your family does not count; if is love. Neither does religion. One is brainwashed into loving either." I paraphrase the White lady.
"I find that offensive. You White people; you brandish us Black and you take our pure... 'white' religion too."
"Fuck off! You can't blame Whites for being critical and questioning a change — it is in all our human natures."
"Don't swear at me." On being offended: a hand brought to the Black lady's bosom, above the white writing over brown background: 'Make Poverty History'. "My point being; if you are White then what am I? If you are light then who am I? If you die pure that how do I?
Second: My religion did not brainwash me. I was chosen to follow His path. You know, like the Waves of Virginia Wolf. You read that yet? The Whitest book you could ever read; yet the dirtiest. Make sense of that... come on. Time for lecture."
They left the Rising Sun.
Marvin (an approximation)
And Marvin used his size ten feet to then speed a hasty stop away from coffee menu; past student and nurse nightspot: the Venue. To ride a large 'U'; a cute and unnecessary manoeuvre, staring office window servers. Past student day spot attended; university campus and halls of residence (previously shunned incapable but grown better since). Marvin eyed all manner of boutiques to again pass the town hall (not New Cross, a further a field 'Deptford' — rather clowned call!). Brushing shoulder wind with recycling cows, then an old public house... bus stand still; surpass and turn for a detour, walking up a hill. Squeeze thighs, squint eyes, breathe hard, pout chest - realise, Marvin; you need a rest. As light faded, changing cold air to colder and dark, our lead male settles aching heels at a local park.
Gosh Marvin, who now sits on one of the seven benches at Telegraph Hill. A short catch of almost fresh air and here he was in a near empty (and he had hoped for business) greenery, hands in pockets searching, equally feeling for the chill.
"You having a light?" A pride from/of Bangladesh asked (addition: this which was written upon her two sizes too small t-shirt; 'Indian Twins'... and I kid you very little). Yes Marvin had a lighter; a blue transparent piece with a solid black switch... click! She was away. Marvin could not resist the temptation to ask her is she needed else, that is, something to light (well business is business). She replied no, and in the business is business mould reciprocally offered her service: "You want a fucking?"
A what? How dare she?! However, she was dressed appropriately for such a statement; though not the colloquial accent. Common it was though far from origin; oh, and why all the sex stuff? "£20."she said. Irony over for Marvin sees the correct angle we do; he addressed the degree some more and looked around. No man tag.
"Where's your pimp?" Marvin questioned in control of a voice, though not of the breeze. He shook.
"I don't having." She smiled and replied. "I going it alone, see?"
He did see. A Bangladeshi prostitute at a park in New Cross, South-East London, alone. What was the matter? Did Marvin not have twenty pounds? (He did. Blonde student had addressed this.) Was he the squeamish type? (He was not. Many other women, the junkie kind, had addressed this.)
He looked her head to toe: black jeans, red heels, fake gold and fake diamond garishly large belt, aforementioned tee, long and purple and frill/thrill embellished coat, looped earrings, pretty yet overly made up face and curly black and shoulder length hair.
"So what, mister? Fucking or what?" Marvin thought hard about how to break the simple news to her. 'No. No. No fucking tonight... why? Well, because you remind me, my dear, of my smack head mother. Though you my sweet, and judging by your eyes, I guess are partial to the other 'ack' drug — cocaine. However, you will be where she was/is soon.' "Well fine, mister, I will taking my biz-ze-ness elsewhere."
It was at this point, where Bangla pride turned and almost last words echoed, that Marvin was struck. The closeness of where he was (no, reader, not New Cross; where he was in life), for so far he had lived a life of close but not exact. Approximations of his life, if you will. He had flashes in reminisce of his mother; a South Indian while this woman; some kind of Asian at least. Coincidence? She looked cleaner than what dirt the years had brought his elder. Could he cleanHer?
Marvin Kita, at the age of idiocy and impression, was never warned of his impending drug related future. A woman had grown up and made the mistake of the approximation known as Marvin and she was now beyond the reach of a saviour. This purple wearing whore, however, was never that. Literally, she was well within his reach.
"Oi. I have a proposition for you, India." If that was her name, how could Marvin know? Ms Bangla Pride turned and raise an eyebrow to listen (it helps some people). "You need protection... you need help... you need me... I'll be your pimp."
Bangla Pride laughed; squarely and inappropriately. Marvin gave her his eyes yet kept each firmly where each did lay. He bargained; he negotiated and set a situation to which B. P. slowly came around to his serious nature. "Why so generoussing, stranger?" She shone a set of teeth missing one pearl.
"Because you remind me of someone." Marvin beamed back to the girl...
***
At close, Marvin rose to aid poor PB out. Stout as she would only think, PB, tentative, accepted Marvin as her pimp. Believing the cursed world she walked so swiftly, had come quickly, now to gift. And Marvin? Having left an estate gate, realised one thing for sure; to kill demons, one must find tasks that settle old score.
G. Haritharan says: "I was born on a Friday to Sri Lankan Tamil parents in a hospital on Denmark Hill which is in London, England. A few years later (around twenty or so) I decided I wanted to write. I started with poetry. Nobody liked it; I got a day job. More years later (around four) and I quit the day job to write a novel. In the proceeding years... I wrote two: Followers of the Dead Man and Kingdoms In Newness. Both were published under the Tamil idea of s4mT. My latest book (a pseudo-short-story collection) will be out January 2009: hint hint."