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Gypsy Masala
Preethi Nair
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by Ninefish 2000
Copyright © Preethi Nair 2000 and 2004
Preethi Nair asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007305018
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007391479 Version: 2016-12-20
Praise for Preethi Nair:
‘A little gem of fiction…a mystic and beautifully lyrical book.’
New Woman
‘This book will have you praying for a delayed train.’
Glamour
‘A genuinely moving novel.’
Daily Express
‘She writes evocatively about childhood and there are passages of tight and lyrical immediacy.’
Guardian
‘A warm-hearted tale of survival.’
The Bookseller
Dedicated to you the reader, in the hope that you may follow the African dancer.
Table of Contents
‘Go away phantom sore throat, untie the muffler and release me so that I may go forth and conquer all that lies before me.’
I have always been a drama queen. I can remember being about seven, scarf tied around my neck, sitting with my Auntie Sheila and her friends listening to incessant banter and clattering coffee cups. Suddenly, I would bolt forth, untie my scarf and ask Argentina not to cry for me. My aunties would stop their slurping and look at me with bewildered eyes. Twenty years later, Evita plays on and the echo of that child resounds deep within me.
I want to bring back this crazy, impetuous child – just for an instant – so I can jump out of my chair at work and tell my boss what I really think of him. And then, maybe, I will stop making excuses and finally escape the mundane routine of a 9-5 existence.
A lot has happened over the past few weeks, and in order to think about things and to locate the little girl I once was, I have feigned illness – the sore throat to be precise – taking a few days off work only to develop the real thing. Cosily tucked up under my duvet, muffler around my neck, my mind wanders.
When I was about eight and played the Virgin Mary in the nativity, I looked at smiling, innocent little Joseph and questioned why he was wearing a tea towel on his head. Indeed, why was I wearing one on my head? The Angel Gabriel
