“Room 4101 darling. It’s on the left. Past the fountain. Ohh you are a doll coming at the wee hours of the morning” She had the “Oh honey you poor thing” look plastered across her wrinkle and bronzed face. Makes you wonder why she wouldn’t just tell me what the hell was going on with TeeJay. All I get is a frightful telephone call from Christine at 4:30 in the morning.

“AMY? AMY, get to the hospital NOW Amy, Teejay’s in a coma.” Christine’s voice echoes through me as I find myself inching closer and closer to the room. The very thought of Teejay laying motionless in a hospital bed scares the shit outta me. A knot fills my empty stomach. Sweat trickles down my back.

“Good thing I didn’t wear my ring, my hands are insanely swollen.” I panic as I realize only a wooden door separates me from Teejay.

“I…I can do this. Of course I can. Just turn that handle, yes…yes…slowly…slowly….no…. the other way. Ah sick its wet.” I rub my right hand across my chest leaving a trail of sweat across my Bon Jovi tee.

I walk into the room. My heart beats even faster, who knew that was possible. The taste of metal lingers in my mouth as I find myself biting hard against my necklace. I cannot bring my eyes to look up at him. Instead they graze across the white titles. It is eerily quiet. Not a sound can be heard except for this, this beeping sound. “What in the world…..” I look up……

A body lays covered under white sheets. Tubes suddenly disappear into this body. A body I cannot recognize only because of the face. I force myself to step closer. An arms length away from the bed and I can clearly see that nose we teased Teejay for so frequently; except there was something different about the nose. In fact there was something different about his entire face. He was unrecognizable. Smashed. His face was smashed. I lift my hands to my face tracing my outline in an attempt to desperately recall the Teejay I remembered.

“Amy!” Christine runs into the room and into my arms.

Hugging onto her because it was the only familiar thing in the room I manage to squeak, “what what happened? I spoke to Teejay before going to bed and now…I can’t even…”

Christine brushes away a tear from my face; I can smell her breath as she tells me what happened, except all I can hear is “head on collision off route 399. He was drunk.”

Shama Doshi
Journal Five

“I promise baby. It’ll never ever ever happen again. Ya know me. I have anger issues.” Mark had spat at her. She should have known better. She deserved someone who kissed her goodnight not a beast who punched her before bed because she forgot to bring him his whiskey on the rocks at midnight. She rubs her black eyes. They still sting. He left her seventeen months ago, bruised, and bleeding on the carpet. The blood stains the white rug, except one wouldn’t see it because she sat on it.

Her neighbors, Deb and Sam, were having one of their loud and drunk Friday night parties. They had invited her to every single one of them, but she hated being around happy couples. She knew going there would just remind her of Mark and his filthy lies. “Oh that low life.” She grumbles to herself. “I HATE YOU.”

The laughter of a happy couple fills the room. Disgusted Abbey mimics that low tenor voice Mark possessed “ Baby, you are my everything please for the love of god. Stay. I promise this time I won’t hit you. I know I said that last time, but I mean it. Ya know I do Babe. PLEASE. Come on. You owe it to me.” She laughs. She’d finally had the courage to leave him, but not without a massive black eye and a candle stick to her head. “Guess he really meant he wouldn’t hit me.” She retorts.

She looks to around her empty flat. “I’m hungry. How about some rice and curry? Oh I love rice. Basmati rice actually with a hint of saffron. Mum gave me a pack of saffron, its somewhere in one of these boxes.” She turned to the box on her left it was labeled in her mother’s familiar handwriting “KITCHEN STUFF.” Her stomach grumbled, a beast inside her. That terrified her. It reminded her of Mark’s grunt right before he’d hit her across the face or punch her. “Oh fuck you Mark!” She screams as she takes out the box cutter from underneath the coffee table.

Three hours later and Abbey finds herself sitting on the floor, in a different spot. Sitting by the coffee table. The flat filled with the aroma of Indian spices. Newspapers carpeted the floor. Abbey sat watching the sunrise and for the first time in seventeen months she knew it would be ok.

“Huh, maybe I’ll build a bookshelf and paint that wall bright orange.” She exclaims happily.

Shama Doshi

My mother used to have one of those really old fashioned mobiles. The Nokia one with the god-awful ring tones that frightened the living daylights out of me each time she got a text message or worse a call. Oh and that yellow green back light. Funny how my brother and I used to always love to play with the phone just to watch that sickly backlight come to life and now I would do anything to never have to use it in the dark. Mum got that phone a good three years after my grandmother got her Sony Eriksson. I can hardly believe granny got it first and refused to put it down, even at teatime when my brother and I would get home from school.

Mum never took a fancy to her phone. She was always leaving it in the most bizarre places. I remember walking into the kitchen, my feet pressed down firmly against the icy tile, looking to sneak some coco pine juice when all of a sudden I spotted that piece of junk in the kitchen sink. God only knows how on earth she managed to leave her phone in the sink! I probably should have been the ideal daughter and taken it out of the sink, but of course me being me I simply shrugged my shoulders, poured my water into the coco pine concentrate and walked away. Speaking of coco pine, it has been years since I last had a taste of that syrupy goodness. Oh the copious amounts of sugar. What a delight. No wonder mum stopped buying it for us.

Watching mum send a text message to my grandmother was always a hilarious moment. She had to be sitting down. Back slightly hunched with a rather large frown on her face indicating she was busy. Her right index finger would press down onto the silver keys puncturing them. I am surprised we never heard the buttons pop. Mum had no sense of how hard to press. She could never hold the phone and text with one hand. She always had to have it in her left hand resting while her index finger typed out “O.K. I WILL SEE YOU.” When we asked her why she had to type in all capital letters and warned her that it could across as being rude she would yell at my brother and I-“well if you didn’t always take MY phone to play that Snake game and mess around with the buttons I would not have to worry about that. Now pick up your bags and let’s go.”

What a coincidence, mum’s calling me! I can happily say she has upgraded and now has a Samsung flip phone and can text with dictionary.

Shama Doshi

She stares out into the depths of the water, setting a tranquil atmosphere. Almost relaxing me. I constantly wonder what my little Amelia is thinking about. She is always telling me “Mama I am grown up. I have grown up thinkings. I think about everything you think about mama. I’m a big girl.” But can she really be thinking about what I think about? Her little heart would never be able to handle even my lightest thoughts. Does she wonder where her father is? Why eating a whole slice of bread is a treat on a Tuesday night, when other children get to indulge on bread every morning?  “Grown up thinkings.” Her little errors in speech bring a smile to my face.  To smile in such a world breaks my heart, for I know it is fake. I have gotten better with meaning my smiles though. Today, I smile and let it radiate through my body for the first time in five years. It causes my body to send shivers all along my skin. I never smile. My body does not know how to react to this feeling.

It is her fifth birthday today.  Five years ago, I brought her into this world; this cruel world. A world without a father, food or place to call home; where drugs and violence riddle the street every moment of every day. The nights are the worst. I am lucky if I get even two hours of sleep. The cardboard mattress works wonders on my already hunched back. But that is not what keeps me awake. Instead the fear of falling asleep and waking up without my Amelia keeps my eyes open.  I hate you Fabio. You left behind your daughter in this drug-forsaken world. Your world. What happens when your minions realize you had a daughter with the hotel maid? You don’t care. How can you, you are the dead warlord. You never cared. I should never have stay with you. That bloody night, tears streaming down my face as you bruised my already swollen left eye with your metallic hand, haunts me every time the sun sets. You make me sick.

My thoughts are interpreted by Amelia’s precious touch. She sits between my legs. Her hands hang onto my knees. Her only play set. I cannot buy her one of her own. I cannot even afford to buy her clothes let alone those monkey bars she sees in her schoolbooks. I left my hand fall gently onto her knees. We are one. Every ounce of my body yearns for her little hands touch. Our feet rest on the baked pebbles. Our soles no longer burn under the scorching earth. I cannot let her wear her black shoes too much, for I cannot afford to buy her new ones. She continues looking out at sea. I wonder if she thinks about what an awful mother I am. How I cannot let her wear slippers on the beach like the other children. When will all this end? I want my daughter to grow up happy and loving every part of her life. I want her to go to university, to study in one of those monstrous libraries. She will be successful and one day she will get to sleep in a twin bed.  I smile again, “Come along Amelia. Mama is buying you the biggest ice cream cone.” My Amelia will be happy and will forever smile.

Shama Doshi

For some obscure reason this reminds me of the beach. I am a little shocked because I always think of blues and greens when I think about the beach. Maybe it is the green and yellows that remind me of the sun? But what does the green remind me of? Probably the palm trees and grass. I wish I were at the beach reading a book, drinking a coconut. I must really miss the African beach; seeing as this is the second creative writing assignment where I have focused on the beach.

Now that I take another glance at the cover I notice the maroon dots. Safari ants. Yes, I imagine them crawling around like red ants deep in the earth’s core. I wonder if they have red ants in China. I just giggled. China must sound so random and out there. The three Xs on the cover bring me to recall the Chinese menu at the restaurant in London’s China Town. Now was that in London or Moscow? Maybe I should call mum and ask her. No, she will think I am bonkers. I just know it was around the time I visited Russia and the U.K. They had delicious seaweed too. Back to the beach imagery again! (Funny how the mind works. )

I wonder what kind of art this would be categorized under. Would Monet like it, what about Dali? This is quite possibly modern art. Made up of shapes, triangles and rectangles mainly. I feel relaxed as I try to find other shapes. The colours are warm and make me appreciate this exercise even more. Oh my, is has only been ten minutes since I first began writing. I am impressed with myself. I would normally take a good hour to produce a paragraph. But what if I am doing this journal incorrectly?

Different shapes to represent the many multitudes found in our lives.  I have to be honest; I am not entirely sure what that even means. But it is the first thing that came to my mind when I noticed the circle with the yellow and pink. I can always expand on that thought later on. (I will come back to it later on in the week.)

How did the painter get those tiny blue dots to fit so perfectly into his/her painting? Did he/she use a paintbrush with a tiny head? Is this even a painting or a print? I suppose I will never really know. That relates a lot to life if you think about it. Just live life to your standards and expectations because in the end no one will really know any different. Well, that made more sense in my head than it does now. I should really elaborate on this.

As I take one final look at the cover I am reminded that I am quite a pathetic artist. Good thing this is creative writing and not creative drawing. I am not sure where I would find myself if it was not.

I began this exercise at 4:01pm and it is now 4:53pm.

Shama Doshi

Eight o’clock in the morning. Where are you?
Terror. It is not Sunday.
Unable to take another sip.
My viens fill with anxiety.
Tea cold. Toast dry.

“Shama lean forward when you eat.”
Breaks the silence. Perplexed, I
become better accquainted
with the side of the table.
I am hungry. “Banana please, Da.”

Banana on toast.
“Shamshu, good morning!”
Your smile paints a smile across
my body. Glittering with happiness.
Sabina has come.
Your smile reassures me.

Miles apart now from you.
Pen in right hand. Left hand wipes away a tear.
I miss you but
your smile lives on through this paper
and forever will in me….

Shama Doshi
(Draft 2)

Our picture lays stagnant and
lifelessly radiates the room
collecting memories that stand
unattached to even the gloom.

Your voice painted my eyes
shut. I woke up in a frightful tease
forgetting you had born a lie
with hurt that rattles knees.

You left me crying on your porch
humiliated with guilt I bled
away a sea of hatred. You scorched
my life with fury I never led.

-Shama Doshi
(2nd draft)

Music paper carpets my already clustered  stone floor.
Ink stains my fingers- a constant reminder
that perhaps working in the key of C minor
is making a fool of myself.

The grand piano sits idly. The ebony keys
longing to be played. Yet,
she taunts me, make me relocate to the warmth of the kitchen.
The stove welcomes me. The boiling water dances
at an andante. Mimicking the sounds of oboes.

Perhaps I should give up,
The third symphony is what I will be known for.
The wind blows with an allegro pace.
The oak leaves hit against the brick. The sounds of
timpani’s easily impersonated by the lightest creature.

Mother’s clay pot rest on the table.
The geese outside anger me, strutting around
owning my garden. A delegation. I scream.
frustration escapes my lungs. The geese, startled,
trumpet in a scherzo like manner.

Amazed.
I furrow. My thoughts stopped.
The robin lands on the sill, waltzing
with purpose. The plucking of violins in high register.

Excitement.
I get up with a clash of the symbols
forcefully bang on the table. My eyes widen.
Rage. I see mother’s clay bowl descend.
“Thud thud thud thud” ( I will clean later)

C minor will not make a fool out of me.
Adrenaline walks me away, humming.
Humming the sound the clay pot made as it hit the floor?
It cannot be.

My, Beethoven’s, fifth symphony.
A masterwork of the Royal Albert Hall.
Inspired by the trumpeting geese, violin waltzing robin and-
the simple fall of a clay pot.

Shama Doshi

The remote control
never leaves your left knee.
It is your companion through-
out the Ashes and Cricket World Cup.
Encaged by your left fingers,
the remote gasps for air.
Instead, it is forcefully muted.
An awkward moment follows.
This time you push against
the orange rubber button. Radiating
with excitement. The Indian batsmen
return, the remote control
lights up with the same intensity I see
the small boy come to life.
You slide the remote closer to you-
and that is when I know, the game has begun.

Shama Doshi