Kingfisher

grandma holds the bottle between her fingers.
rolls it back and forth with practiced ease,
“is this indian beer, i’ve never tried indian before, perhaps i can take one home”
the owner has a menu open
“take away. to take one home”
nods at the right places,
tries to get her to order something as she butts out her first cigarette.
lights the second.
“it tastes like happoshu. you know”
the owner and i make eye contact. roll eyes.
shrug at the mention of un-beer.
the naan on my plate glistens. oil concealed in the folds.
i get up and turn to leave and grandma spots me in the corner,

“i’m sorry i talk too much. i’m just a rude old woman.”
smiles a broken smile and exhales smoke towards the ceiling.
it’s just gone 11 and salarymen scurry past outside.
black suits, ties and vending machine coffee.
she’s drunk. wants to talk. I have no idea what to say.

so I pretend I don’t understand, nod, and pull open the door.

I can smell tandoori until I reach the end of the arcade.

Posted in Mwah on Monday November 7, 2005.