True Confession: Love Potion No.7 (Part 1 today)
When Rasammah Muthusamy Finds Passionate Love at Counter No.7, Life Is No Longer The Same. Overnight, She Turns From Dame To Lame.
A Tender & Compassionate Narration by Susan Abraham
Aged 38+, the plump Miss Muthusamy, had recovered from a nervous breakdown. Then she met undying love and was ruined forever.
She was a dumpy figure and so short, she literally kissed the ground she rolled on.
Her size veered towards Aretha Franklin in her dotage. Miss Muthusamy was very round. So round that she could not walk, turn or stroll. Instead, she rolled, swung and bounced with the speed of a tortoise. There were no elbow joints. No bones or veins were ever spotted.It was whispered that Miss Muthusamy had no birth certificate or navel. But if with the aid of a treasure map, you patiently changkul-ed through the six layers of cellulite, waded through grimy dirt that missed the shower lather and survived a qucksand of finger gulp from extraordianry flab activity, you would discover hidden amongst the rubble of unruly jungled flesh; a small buried well. Sometimes, her footsteps growled at the weight. They made a ton of clip-clop noises. They sounded like dollops or gallops. Round and fat she rolled on like a black ball of cat.
Her hair was Yoko Ono-rish, vulnerable to a dry frizz that her dandruff scalp stayed a burning summer. One feared that one day it might catch fire. One should never stand too close. To carry a matchbox towards her person was suicide. If one smelt burning, hold your nose. A marked distance was necesary while in conversation. You never knew when a mad fit of arson would be in motion.
Her long tresses slid down her shoulders like hurried eels on a mass migration. In short when she rolled on a pavement, adjusting her thick horn-rimmed spectacles, people thought a ghost had slid past. Of course, she never looked hunted. But she always looked haunted.
Miss Muthusamy had nurtured a secret crush for her sister's boyfriend, Anthony Kandiah.
Kandiah wore a Panama hat, thinking it was a cowboy one. Kandiah had never heard of South America. He was not prone to academia. He pretended to have come from Texas when his father was actually a plantation worker in Colombo. He thought Germany was in America and London in Hollywood. His dream was to emigrate to Paris. He had no idea where it was but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Anthony Kandiah had constructed a simple, clever plan. All he would do was pack a shiny new family on his secondhand Vespa, send the luggage on by cargo, drive across Penang Bridge and whoa! He may just have reached Paris.
"Rascal of a son," cursed the father of his son's appetite for the idle life. Kandiah was immediately packed off to his widowed aunt in Pandamaran, Malaysia where he arrived not knowing where on a cargo ship. The aunt feared that he had a tendency as the Malays put it so skilfully to "pergi main jolly". That means jollying and gallivanting about like a bum.
He looked a hairy gorilla. He had hairs everywhere that so turned the tubby Miss Muthusamy on. His sideburns continued to flash dangerously but Miss Muthusamy did not take up the offer. Alas! Statuette virgins are like showcased tea-sets. Pretty to look at but cannot get wet.
Kandiah joined a cowboy band and sang love songs on his acoustic guitar. He crooned to Miss Muthusamy with brotherly affection. He sang My Wooden Heart and Love Me Tender.
Miss Muthusamy thought of how very much he looked like the delicous Presley. Pardon me but for a true picture, I fear it was Shrek. Consider the number of unused chins. Some newly-born and others retired. Some perfect for cow-grazing even when you thought of the stubble. Miss Rasammah Muthusamy suffered from short-sighted vision and an any-man-will-do soul.
They played cards. Gin Rummy for a romantic rendezvouz. She thought he loved her and it was only a matter of time before he popped the question. Miss Muthusamy's eyebrows rose up and down. Her talking bust huffed and puffed and threatened to blow the cards down if he didn't confess his love or embrace her first.
Then she would grab Kandiah by the scruff of his neck and kiss him good and hard and add on a big bear hug, that was as cosy as his beer jug.
Already, her pelvis was gyrating to that old pop hit, Kiss Me Quick. It jingled and jangled like her charm bangle and an early Christmas bell.
It was a steamy episode.
When her sister brought home the engagement ring, Miss Muthusamy locked herself in the room and refused to come out. The boyfriend was sent for while she screamed abuse. He was flattered to discover a duplicate passionate interest within the family. Pity! One could only have 1 wife. He swore he gave her no encouragement.
The door was finally broken down by Ah Seng, a famed Chinese locksmith from down the road. Miss Muthusamy was whisked away in an ambulance and not made available for public viewing for the next 2 years.
Now she worked in a small bookshop. On Sundays, she attended a charismatic church where the pastor told her that as a born-again Christian, she would have to marry another. This provoked complications.
Especially when Miss Muthusamy rolled over like a prickly hedgehog, head-over-heels in love with a devoted Hindu bank clerk in Counter No.7 on the National Hide-Your-Money-Here bank. And that was where the trouble started.
(Part 2 tomorrow)
She was a dumpy figure and so short, she literally kissed the ground she rolled on.
Her size veered towards Aretha Franklin in her dotage. Miss Muthusamy was very round. So round that she could not walk, turn or stroll. Instead, she rolled, swung and bounced with the speed of a tortoise. There were no elbow joints. No bones or veins were ever spotted.It was whispered that Miss Muthusamy had no birth certificate or navel. But if with the aid of a treasure map, you patiently changkul-ed through the six layers of cellulite, waded through grimy dirt that missed the shower lather and survived a qucksand of finger gulp from extraordianry flab activity, you would discover hidden amongst the rubble of unruly jungled flesh; a small buried well. Sometimes, her footsteps growled at the weight. They made a ton of clip-clop noises. They sounded like dollops or gallops. Round and fat she rolled on like a black ball of cat.
Her hair was Yoko Ono-rish, vulnerable to a dry frizz that her dandruff scalp stayed a burning summer. One feared that one day it might catch fire. One should never stand too close. To carry a matchbox towards her person was suicide. If one smelt burning, hold your nose. A marked distance was necesary while in conversation. You never knew when a mad fit of arson would be in motion.
Her long tresses slid down her shoulders like hurried eels on a mass migration. In short when she rolled on a pavement, adjusting her thick horn-rimmed spectacles, people thought a ghost had slid past. Of course, she never looked hunted. But she always looked haunted.
Miss Muthusamy had nurtured a secret crush for her sister's boyfriend, Anthony Kandiah.
Kandiah wore a Panama hat, thinking it was a cowboy one. Kandiah had never heard of South America. He was not prone to academia. He pretended to have come from Texas when his father was actually a plantation worker in Colombo. He thought Germany was in America and London in Hollywood. His dream was to emigrate to Paris. He had no idea where it was but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Anthony Kandiah had constructed a simple, clever plan. All he would do was pack a shiny new family on his secondhand Vespa, send the luggage on by cargo, drive across Penang Bridge and whoa! He may just have reached Paris.
"Rascal of a son," cursed the father of his son's appetite for the idle life. Kandiah was immediately packed off to his widowed aunt in Pandamaran, Malaysia where he arrived not knowing where on a cargo ship. The aunt feared that he had a tendency as the Malays put it so skilfully to "pergi main jolly". That means jollying and gallivanting about like a bum.
He looked a hairy gorilla. He had hairs everywhere that so turned the tubby Miss Muthusamy on. His sideburns continued to flash dangerously but Miss Muthusamy did not take up the offer. Alas! Statuette virgins are like showcased tea-sets. Pretty to look at but cannot get wet.
Kandiah joined a cowboy band and sang love songs on his acoustic guitar. He crooned to Miss Muthusamy with brotherly affection. He sang My Wooden Heart and Love Me Tender.
Miss Muthusamy thought of how very much he looked like the delicous Presley. Pardon me but for a true picture, I fear it was Shrek. Consider the number of unused chins. Some newly-born and others retired. Some perfect for cow-grazing even when you thought of the stubble. Miss Rasammah Muthusamy suffered from short-sighted vision and an any-man-will-do soul.They played cards. Gin Rummy for a romantic rendezvouz. She thought he loved her and it was only a matter of time before he popped the question. Miss Muthusamy's eyebrows rose up and down. Her talking bust huffed and puffed and threatened to blow the cards down if he didn't confess his love or embrace her first.
Then she would grab Kandiah by the scruff of his neck and kiss him good and hard and add on a big bear hug, that was as cosy as his beer jug.
Already, her pelvis was gyrating to that old pop hit, Kiss Me Quick. It jingled and jangled like her charm bangle and an early Christmas bell.
It was a steamy episode.
When her sister brought home the engagement ring, Miss Muthusamy locked herself in the room and refused to come out. The boyfriend was sent for while she screamed abuse. He was flattered to discover a duplicate passionate interest within the family. Pity! One could only have 1 wife. He swore he gave her no encouragement.
The door was finally broken down by Ah Seng, a famed Chinese locksmith from down the road. Miss Muthusamy was whisked away in an ambulance and not made available for public viewing for the next 2 years.
Now she worked in a small bookshop. On Sundays, she attended a charismatic church where the pastor told her that as a born-again Christian, she would have to marry another. This provoked complications.
Especially when Miss Muthusamy rolled over like a prickly hedgehog, head-over-heels in love with a devoted Hindu bank clerk in Counter No.7 on the National Hide-Your-Money-Here bank. And that was where the trouble started.
(Part 2 tomorrow)
Splendid Caricature Credit to Magixl
posted by Suzan Abrams, email: suzanabrams@live.co.uk | 01:36
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