Monologue vs dialogue

"NASA is a conspiracy. They send a man to the moon. Lies, bunch of lies. No, not true. I know. I was hired. Christmas lunch. they came over. I cooked. There was turkey. No, chicken. I don't know. She's lying. All time. It's a conspiracy. All lies. Lunch, not dinner. There was turkey. They all lied. It was Christmas. When they sent the man to the moon. Hypocrisy. Bullshit. I don't like it. Not at all. "

Pause. Long pause. Distressed eyes looking around in panic.

"No. It won't happen . No christmas lunch. they are after me. I know."

Monlogue of a woman. Sitting beside me (a seat away), on the subway.

50 something. Salt and pepper, very disheveled hair. Untidy, unkempt look. Faded baggy denims. An oversized sweatshirt on a hot day. Torn, tattered sneakers. Panic stricken eyes.

She sat there and just talked to herself. Or to an imaginary person, who lives in her head.

I see quite a few like her. On the street. Mostly homeless. or junkies. Walking the street, sitting on the sidewalk, riding the subway. Talking to themselves. Or to some ghosts of their past. Or imaginary people. I will never know. Till I talk to them. Engage in a dialogue

But they only seem to talk to themselves. Engage in monologues.

Immigrant Tales - I

My first memory of landing at the US airport for the very first time with my visa in hand.

As I stood, very tired , very jetlagged, in a very long line of very tired, very jetlagged people, waiting for my turn to clear immgration, I heard a very loud, very irate voice saying "All US citizens , please step to this side and form a line here. This is for your convenience. All the "rest" , please wait where you are"!.

And there it was. Spelt out, loud, clear and very irrtatedly. The separation . Between those who belonged and those who didn't. Between the coveted US citizenship vs the Visa. Between the Americans and the rest of the world. Between those who had earned the privelege of not having to wait in a tiring line and those who had no other choice but to.

And I knew , in that moment, this was just the start. To more lines, more waiting periods. For a driver's licence. For a work visa. For a citizenship interview.

For that feeling of belonging somewhere.

Immigrant tales

Color, not colour. Sidewalk , not pavement. Stroller, not pram. Grade, not class. Street, not road.

I used to shift houses. Now I move.

Neighbors do not come over to borrow a katori of yoghurt. It would be an imposition, not an opportunity to have a conversation.

More Christmas lights. Less Diwali.

Blues, grays, browns as opposed to oranges, lime greens and reds.

Driving on the right, not the left.

Home and " back home".

That feeling of belonging. Yet feeling "in- between".

The journey of an immigrant. I started mine in 1997.

It's been a long one and there's lots to tell.