Member of Parliament
Who is my MP? I don’t know his name. Or her name. I should know his/her name because political parties can benefit from voter apathy to enslave the poor, but I don’t. What do I see when I picture my MP? I picture a perfectly nice person not very concerned about things in general.
The melting point of a snowman is about thirty-six degrees centigrade. Minimum. I spell this out in case any snowmen are reading. They only understand numbers and don’t care about the power of language to unite us lumps of bone, blood and bitterness together in temporary harmony.
Or, in another word, bollards. Have you noticed how people never touch bollards? Have you also noticed how few people hold onto the railings on public staircases? Am I the only one to grip on tightly as I climb the capital’s peaks? I often feel people are privy to some horrible truths about germs, and everyone views me as a filth-monger, fingering those dirty rails.
The police stand for two things: fear and death. If a policeman arrived at my door I would faint in fear of imminent arrest or family slaughter. I trust them to keep me safe from vagabonds, but I want no dealings with them, I want a world free from terrifying little squares and yellow cagoules.
Our briefing yesterday was laced with the usual slammings of former students (the subtle approach) and general nods and winks not to fuckitallup, please. In fairness, there were also positive ex-grad remarks, and the slammings were a deterrent against any unneeded humiliation before being sent into the great beyond of post-postgrad life. All my prep work in the creative (or is it narrative?) nonfiction module has been leading up to this moment, so I don’t face a gaping void of ideas and worries. But still, they’ll come.
MP also stands for Mumbai Police, Machine Pistol and Missionary Position.