Maya by Mariam Kobras
[caption id="attachment_9693" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="(Art: Eric G. Thompson)"]
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I thought I’d give everyone a hint of what’s yet to come, so here’s a short excerpt from Song of the Storm, Book III in the Stone Trilogy.
She knew it was Saturday before she even opened her eyes.
Curled up under the covers, Maya could tell it what day it was by their sounds and smells.
Saturday, played the tune of the weekend through her open window. Strangely, it was more hectic and more relaxed at the same time, than a regular weekday. Its pace slowing, while life itself surged faster. Her father’s voice could be heard from below as he chatted with a customer about the weather and the quality of the pineapples, accompanied by the melodies of his favorite Bollywood music. His voice seemed to rise and fall in rhythm with the song, a sharp contrast to the brisk tone of the woman he was talking to. The mixed aromas of curry, fresh bread and pakoras drifted in, laced by the more enticing smell of coffee from the shop next door. Karim despised coffee, giving them all lectures about the “black poison” in much the same manner he would hold forth on the evils of air conditioning, European breads and credit cards.
“They use them to win power over you,” he had told them only a few days ago after someone had tried to pay him with one, “You spend and spend and spend and they’ll extend you credit until you are unable to pay it back, and then they’ll take everything from you, including your soul.”
Angie had given him a long-suffering glance and replied that he was a true hippie at heart, and behind the times. But she had said it in such a loving way that he had stopped.
Maya pulled the sheet up over her head and closed her eyes again.
Falling asleep had not been easy, with everything that had happened. After Uma had drifted off she had taken out the lanyard with her all-area pass and Sal’s card to finger them in the dim light of her bedside lamp.
“I’ll be waiting in the lobby,” Sal had said to her, “And then we can go wherever you want for lunch. And stroll.”
She knew the hotel. She had walked past it many times or stood outside, on the other side of the street to get a good view, as she wondered about the people going in and out, assisted into waiting limousines and vans with tinted screens by the black-liveried doormen, wondering what they did in life to be able to afford a place like that. There had never been a really famous face, but Maya was certain there were celebrities hidden somewhere beyond the red carpet and the heavy doors. A couple of times she had tried to find the courage to walk inside and have a look around, but it was just too intimidating. She was certain someone would stop her, and send her on her way, recognizing she had no business to be in such a luxurious establishment.
From the kitchen came the well-known sound of Angie’s coffee grinder.
Maya threw back her covers with verve, certain she would not be afraid to walk into that hotel today.
Selma was sitting at the kitchen table, her Barbie dolls lined up in front of her, pretending they were having a breakfast party around her plate. Her little face was serious as she chatted to them, crumbling the golden crust of her samosas into doll-sized pieces.
Angie handed Maya a mug of coffee when she sat down on the bench beside Selma.
“You’re lucky,” she said, “Your father just remembered he wanted you to serve the outside tables today. You owe Uma a big favor.”
Maya looked down at the food placed before her, greasy and aromatic with garlic and spices, and set down her coffee.
There was no way she was going to eat this before she went to meet Sal, and maybe get a glimpse of Jon. It would not do to have bad breath, or even worse, reek of the shop and her mother’s frying vats.
Dolefully she took in her surroundings: the stuffy kitchen with the many pots on the huge, old stove, the garish Bollywood posters plastered to the walls with tape, the red plastic runner on the floor, grimy with things her mother had carelessly dropped while cooking her curries, the full ashtray on the window sill, left from the night before or maybe a smoking session early in the morning. Angie herself, dressed negligently in a too-wide t-shirt and shapeless skirt, her hair piled into an untidy knot at the top of her head, was moving around in the constricted space, humming to herself. Selma had begun picking up the tiny pieces of samosa with the tip of her finger which she licked to make the morsels stick. The sun fell through the open window, hot even in the morning, with no breeze to stir the grayish curtains. In the glass lamp shade dangling from the ceiling Maya could see the silhouettes of dead insects, their limbs stretched out as if they had embraced the bulb in their final instant.
“I’m leaving now,” she announced.
Angie barely glanced her way. “Come back home soon, you hear me. We need you here. Don’t get lost on Park Avenue again, you dreamer.”
Maya did not reply, but that was exactly what she had in mind.
[/caption]I thought I’d give everyone a hint of what’s yet to come, so here’s a short excerpt from Song of the Storm, Book III in the Stone Trilogy.
She knew it was Saturday before she even opened her eyes.
Curled up under the covers, Maya could tell it what day it was by their sounds and smells.
Saturday, played the tune of the weekend through her open window. Strangely, it was more hectic and more relaxed at the same time, than a regular weekday. Its pace slowing, while life itself surged faster. Her father’s voice could be heard from below as he chatted with a customer about the weather and the quality of the pineapples, accompanied by the melodies of his favorite Bollywood music. His voice seemed to rise and fall in rhythm with the song, a sharp contrast to the brisk tone of the woman he was talking to. The mixed aromas of curry, fresh bread and pakoras drifted in, laced by the more enticing smell of coffee from the shop next door. Karim despised coffee, giving them all lectures about the “black poison” in much the same manner he would hold forth on the evils of air conditioning, European breads and credit cards.
“They use them to win power over you,” he had told them only a few days ago after someone had tried to pay him with one, “You spend and spend and spend and they’ll extend you credit until you are unable to pay it back, and then they’ll take everything from you, including your soul.”
Angie had given him a long-suffering glance and replied that he was a true hippie at heart, and behind the times. But she had said it in such a loving way that he had stopped.
Maya pulled the sheet up over her head and closed her eyes again.
Falling asleep had not been easy, with everything that had happened. After Uma had drifted off she had taken out the lanyard with her all-area pass and Sal’s card to finger them in the dim light of her bedside lamp.
“I’ll be waiting in the lobby,” Sal had said to her, “And then we can go wherever you want for lunch. And stroll.”
She knew the hotel. She had walked past it many times or stood outside, on the other side of the street to get a good view, as she wondered about the people going in and out, assisted into waiting limousines and vans with tinted screens by the black-liveried doormen, wondering what they did in life to be able to afford a place like that. There had never been a really famous face, but Maya was certain there were celebrities hidden somewhere beyond the red carpet and the heavy doors. A couple of times she had tried to find the courage to walk inside and have a look around, but it was just too intimidating. She was certain someone would stop her, and send her on her way, recognizing she had no business to be in such a luxurious establishment.
From the kitchen came the well-known sound of Angie’s coffee grinder.
Maya threw back her covers with verve, certain she would not be afraid to walk into that hotel today.
Selma was sitting at the kitchen table, her Barbie dolls lined up in front of her, pretending they were having a breakfast party around her plate. Her little face was serious as she chatted to them, crumbling the golden crust of her samosas into doll-sized pieces.
Angie handed Maya a mug of coffee when she sat down on the bench beside Selma.
“You’re lucky,” she said, “Your father just remembered he wanted you to serve the outside tables today. You owe Uma a big favor.”
Maya looked down at the food placed before her, greasy and aromatic with garlic and spices, and set down her coffee.
There was no way she was going to eat this before she went to meet Sal, and maybe get a glimpse of Jon. It would not do to have bad breath, or even worse, reek of the shop and her mother’s frying vats.
Dolefully she took in her surroundings: the stuffy kitchen with the many pots on the huge, old stove, the garish Bollywood posters plastered to the walls with tape, the red plastic runner on the floor, grimy with things her mother had carelessly dropped while cooking her curries, the full ashtray on the window sill, left from the night before or maybe a smoking session early in the morning. Angie herself, dressed negligently in a too-wide t-shirt and shapeless skirt, her hair piled into an untidy knot at the top of her head, was moving around in the constricted space, humming to herself. Selma had begun picking up the tiny pieces of samosa with the tip of her finger which she licked to make the morsels stick. The sun fell through the open window, hot even in the morning, with no breeze to stir the grayish curtains. In the glass lamp shade dangling from the ceiling Maya could see the silhouettes of dead insects, their limbs stretched out as if they had embraced the bulb in their final instant.
“I’m leaving now,” she announced.
Angie barely glanced her way. “Come back home soon, you hear me. We need you here. Don’t get lost on Park Avenue again, you dreamer.”
Maya did not reply, but that was exactly what she had in mind.
