Sandeep

My sister-in-law Savitri is on the phone, "Sandeep, I'm a busy person, you gotta meet my schedule."
I have no choice, me asking for the favor, "whatever time you wish."
"Friday night, Caffeine Cave."
I protest, "promised you a real restaurant meal. All you can get there is grilled sandwiches."
"Sandeep, my boy, do I hafta paint a picture? I wouldn't dare go there alone, want to see it."
"Why on earth you wanna visit a meat rack for gays?"
"The anthropologist in me, Sandeep, see you Friday."

I'm on edge, see she's a sessional lecturer/grad student in English Literature. She's read the first draft of my novel, I'll get the verdict.
We order and I pay at the counter. Maurice flashes me one filthy look which says, "don't ever bring a 'fish' here again."
Savitri smiles as we sit, "I made a page of notes. Start with setting. Awesome. Everything from prices 'on the pave' to newspaper articles of the Burnham era to good scenery of Guyana. Just one problem. Your Guyanese reader would really prefer more plot, less setting. Your white reader is very busy, doesn't buy 450 page novels anymore."
I nod.
"Characters come across as too simplistic to a Guyanese. Yet your white reader would find them complicated, unfamiliar names you know. Caught in the middle."
I nod.
"Dialogue, good balance. Just enough Guyanese slang to keep it interesting. Not too much to confuse."
I nod.
"Plot bites, bigtime. Come on Sandeep, most exciting thing in there is smuggling a suitcase of watches. How bout something more thrilling?"
"Savitri, suppose I cleaned it up, found just the right balance you allude to. Guesstimate the royalties."
She laughs easily, "no market for a genre like this, too narrow. If you sell at all, I'd be surprised. If you collect a thousand, I'd be astounded."
I groan aloud.
She switches to news of friends and relatives back in Guyana.

Saturday morning I'm back in the Caffeine Cave for brunch. Loud raucous conversation of some 15 gay guys with several tables pushed together.
We call ourselves the Latex Legion. All out of action due to severe latex allergy.
Everyone has way too much time, most are getting into trouble because of it. Me, where else would I find the time to write that novel?
As the group breaks up, I buy 20 minutes surf. As always, no email, I'm a total outcast back home. Rest of my time is Guyana Chronicle news site.

Monday morning I'm at the bank of elevators. I groan inwardly as Asmina, that cougar in Business Audit shows. During the ride to our floor, she shamelessly hits all over me.
She turns north to Business Audit, I turn south to Error Corrections Unit.
Dave, a co-worker, falls in step with me, "ain't it always the truth? Women want the 'forbidden fruit', pardon the pun."
I laugh.
"Why not take her up on it?"
"Oh yeah," I reply sarcastically, "we got lots in common. I'm gay, she's straight. I'm Hindu, so next round of violence in India, she'll be royally ticked at me. Add in she's 15 years older, makes twice as much. Happy little couple!"
"But other than that stuff, she does have a nice bod."
"Dave, in case I haven't made myself clear, I'm gay. You chase her."
"Nah, she hates white boys."

I use my Revenue Canada swipe card, enter where angels fear to tread.
I can tell a neighbor Rachel has big news. Tells me how her pension starts in a few days. She and husband are headed to Israel.
"What on earth for? Isn't there lotsa trouble there?"
"Sandeep my boy, the cause. We're Jews, first last and always."
"Must be nice to have a cause."
She smiles sadly, "you have two. It's just no one will let you participate. Guyana and Carib crowd doesn't want you, most are too homophobic. Gay crowd doesn't want you mostly, because so many are racist. With us, it's simple, we're Jews, other Jews accept us."
"Wish you the best."
By noon, I'm starting to feel the flu floating around. Go home early, pile a mountain of blankets and coats over me.

I awake to see a vaguely Arabic-looking woman, who vanishes, reappears with a woman in blue and white naval-type uniform. Single silver bar on each shoulder, probably Lieutenant.
In a posh British accent, Lt informs me I'm lucky to be alive.
I shrug, "last I heard, no one died of that flu."
"Not the flu. They voted to kill you. I vetoed the vote result."
This is starting to take on Mad Hatter Tea Party tone.
She grins wickedly, "when you see how primitive it is, you'll probably wish I hadn't used my power of veto."
"So who are you?"
"We are a group of Afghan castaways. You ever read science fiction?"
"Nah, mostly whites are into that."
"Well, you have the good fortune or bad fortune to be trapped in the same timewarp as us. Which languages do you know?"
"English, some Hindi."
"Meet Zohra, your wife now. Doesn't speak a word of English, but that's hardly necessary to fulfill your husbandly duties."
"Wife? You must be mad, I'm gay."
Lt laughs easily, "I can tell that from the haircut, I'm westernized. Resta these people wouldn't have a clue. So Mr Gay Guy, prefer to be Mr Dead Guy?"
I raise an eyebrow.
"Only way they agreed to accept my veto, I promised them a draw. Zohra won."
"So what do I do?"
"Close your eyes, use a fantasy. Don't produce, she'll stab you."
As Lt, Zohra and I walk through a tent city, a crowd of women and girls is staring at me as if I were a little green Martian.
We arrive at a 10 foot by 10 foot tent, which belongs to Zohra and three girls, ages 9, 7, and 5.
Zohra tells the girls something and the nine-year-old takes the others away.
Now this is definitely not porn, just my story. So all I will say is the Lt gave me good advice. The fantasy worked.

I'm eating breakfast with Zohra, the three girls and Lt. Lt informs me the 9-y-o Meena knows a little English, will be my Dari instructor. Lt gives a long song and dance on how they ended up in a sci fi adventure. I see a strange look come over Meena's face.
It being a nice day, Meena and I sit outside with a beginner level Dari reader.
Flatly she says, "so you're a murderer too."
"What on earth gave you that idea?"
"Lt is a nut case. Sees herself as a heroine in a movie. Truth is this is a prison, isolated island. All the grownups are murderers. So, who'd you kill?"
"President of Guyana Society of Literature."
"Cooool, I like you. No one else here likes lit either."