42 Days
By Bernardine Evaristo
NORMAL
Hardeep
took the Central Line
from Northolt
to Mile End, weekdays,
shuffling through the barriers
in hooded sweatshirt,
rucksack on his back
bulging with books.
He slunk into a seat,
knees splayed out,
Bangra beats
throbbing in his MP3
and glowered
out the window
in an early morning
grump, dreading
a 3 hour lecture
on algorithms at 9 o’clock,
until the train entered
the darkness
at White City
and crowds of commuters
got on
and gobbled him up.
MORAL
Hardeep
likes old school hip hop,
Eastenders, cricket,
(Bollywood classics crack him up),
Big Macs, Adidas (not Nike),
Playstation.
One day he’ll
move back up North
where his roots are,
he reckons.
That evening
he was glued to the telly,
appalled:
the burning towers,
the burning people,
his burning heart.
It was like a blockbuster
disaster movie, he thought,
only this time
for real.
DAMAGE
Hardeep
takes the Central Line
later than usual
to avoid the crowds
who avoid the spaces
either side
of him, so that sitting isolated
his face burns.
He carries his books
in a transparent plastic bag,
wears his hood down.
No one does anything
except scowl
but when he gets up
fear shivers through
the carriage
like an electric charge,
grown men shoulder
him
like he’s an enemy alien
and he wants to shout out,
‘I’m Sikh, you tossers’.