Madhura had been walking for twenty minutes under the rain through the streets of Uxbridge. It was half six AM and the whole world had embraced her new freedom -which could be described as her favourite belongings in a small suitcase, purse and smartphone… and her fully loaded travel card.
No. She was not going to be forced into marriage with Fadil, her father’s favourite driver from the family’s mini-cab business. A decent member of the community.
She had spoken to Betty about her plans to leave the house. “You’ll get in trouble, you’ll end up murdered, you’ll be begging to be let back in and then they’ll treat you like crap” Betty kept warning. But Madhura wasn’t going to take any advice from a spoilt, white girl.
The first thing she had to get rid of now was the scar on her hand from when she refused to come down to the living room to meet stinky Fadil, getting marked by the struggle with her father.
She had a little Tattoo book that she had started a year ago and managed to keep hidden inside the mattress. That scar had to be covered- she didn’t want to remember that year. She didn’t want to remember the terror of being “handed” to Fadil.
Now she started to laugh under the rain, even though she was getting soaked- Fadil, my husband? Ha, Ha, Ha! And I was going to get free taxi rides to the Market everyday!
She started to notice people passing by, and for the first time she realised that pedestrians actually have stories inside, stories of captivity and regained freedom- she just wanted to hear each and every one of these!
Madhura didn’t quite know where she was going, maybe to a Restaurant where she could use her cooking skills to start an adult life. She was going to contact Sheila and Betty in a couple of days, once she found a place where to stay.
After getting off a bus ride and wondering through Finchley street, and having been scorned by about four restaurant staff as she asked for a ” cook position”, she noticed a Tattoo and Piercing studio. There were Tattoo designs on the window in every colour possible, skulls, angels and elves. But she had her own Tattoo in mind and on paper.
“Aren’t you popping in young lady? It’s not raining inside!” The Tattooist was ever so cheerful she felt she wanted to let go and let him take charge.
“Sure” she said, shyly.
“Another teenage self harmer! I can fix that!”
“I’m not a self-harmer. And I have my own design to choose from. I want Cobalt Blue”
As she pulled out her precious Tattoo Book, and fearing he might stain it with inky hands, Brad’s eyes became very serious. He went slowly through every design without mumbling a word, until the last page, then he went through it all again.
“What’s your name?”
“My name’s Madhura. I’m looking for a job as a cook.”
“Did you do all these?”
“Well, Madhura, you ain’t gonna chop one more carrot in your whole little life again! This kind of designs are exactly what I have been looking for for the last two years. I’ll pay you three pounds per design and the Copyright is mine. I will teach you the craft. Soon you’ll be tagging punks from all over the world. As for the scar on your hand, darling you’ll make enough money here to get it sorted with surgery. Go leave your bag upstairs, I’ve got a customer coming in at seven. And put some lipstick on please!”
More Humor here.