It was thought that the gods blew on creative people, who would then inhale the god's breath and have an idea. This is the premise of "inspiration": inhaling divine breath and ideas.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The girl at Piccadilly....


Each week, I post three words. You write something using the words.
Then come back and post a link to the contribution with Mr. Linky (but please, link to the exact post, not your blog, by clicking on the exact post title and paste it to Mr. Linky below). As  always, there's no hard-and-fast rule that you have to post on Wednesday.
But I invite everyone to check back often to read and  comment on other contributions. This is, after all, a community for writers who clamor for feedback.
This week's words:
Admire; verb:

Follow; verb:


We were the first to arrive at Piccadilly, a restaurant renowned for Iranian food in Mumbai. With a childish excitement, the three of us dropped our shopping bags and began to admire the place. A bored fat bald waiter walked by and passed on the menus. Before leaving he forced a smile, I haven't seen a smile followed by a frown and then again disappear into a frown. The dentist in me was awakened by that smile. His teeth were discolored and his gums were swollen. My sister seemed to sense it and begged me not to venture into a 'Lecture on oral health awareness'. I decided to let go, this one time. The writer in me immediately came into action, I placed a patch on his eye and dressed him in a large black cloak (in the back of my mind) and lo! I had my own version of a pirate... 'Pirate in Piccadilly!' I cried aloud. We all laughed out loud and exchanged our versions of the waiter. My sister thought about Adolf Hitler and my husband thought about 'Shrek'. How cute!

Iranian food was ordered and we fell silent for a while, mostly busy with our mobile phones. The small place began to fill up with groups of three and fours mostly.... People began to settle down and the waiter appeared and disappeared with menus and orders.

A loud shrill, yes the voice was scary and I dropped my phone... Amidst all the anguish and disgust I realized the words she was singing was from my favorite song: 'Dream........ Dream.. Dream..' by Everly Brothers.

Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream

I hit my head to the table trying to pick up the phone... The bump and the song seemed like a dreadful combination. I couldn't take my eyes off the girl, my ears definitely wanted to get folded and turn sound proof. Why don't we have that option...

The girl  dressed in blue jeans and a bright colored top looked chic. She continued singing in the same irritable voice... to a young fellow who seemed to admire the song. His face was lit up. The whole room fell silent and people gaver her their complete attention, more out of shock rather than out of choice...

My sister whispered to me, where's the remote control to turn this broken piece off... we giggled like little naughty girls, an elderly woman tried to clear her ears with self made ear buds. They looked like tooth picks covered with tissue paper. The rest of the crowd gaped at the girl in blue... and then to our rescue came the waiter who carefully placed the food at her table.

We couldn't help but bless the waiter. To our eyes he now looked like a flying angel. Our prayers were finally answered. She literally dived into her food,, using both hands generously. The rest of the crowd continued to have their dinner in peace. We paid our bills and walked out of Piccadilly with memories of good food.

After about two to three days later, my husband and sister were fighting for the newspaper. I rushed out of the kitchen. The Piccadilly girl's photo was in the newspaper. She was the same girl, there was no sort of confusion about that. The text below the photo was from a Mumbaikar. The piccadilly girl was living in their streets for ten days. She had made the footpath her home and began to live there. When people approached her to offer help, she had put up a bold fight even with policemen and was slowly becoming a nuisance. Another observation made by the columnist was that she was wearing branded clothes, an expensive watch and some 'cool' shades. She spoke in good english and claimed to be from Delhi. She also added she had fled from home to Mumbai to become a model.

We were surprised. The Piccadilly girl seemed to stir up a cyclone everywhere she went....         


  1. Neatly wrapped story Medhini..fresh as a breeze..Jae

  2. Such a wonderfully visual piece of writing, a real pleasure to read :o)

  3. sounds like she had some kind of mental illness. great story though.

  4. She is certainly an interesting character.

    Great use of three words. I hope you'll check out my attempt.

  5. This story of yours sounds so real with the detail that you have provided. It is almost as though you could not have made it up. Whether that is true or not does not matter, it just shows the power and effectiveness of your writing.

  6. Yeah, nicely told, loved the funnies at the beginning!

  7. thank you guys for the appreciation... experimenting with different styles of writing...