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About Palembang

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

'I'm being called a Pakistani whore'

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So, I’m torn. Do I stay and do my job, or do I chase after some fun? I mean, it’s Pakisaji! Festivals are rare gems here. But I stick it out. The meeting drags on, and I’m losing my mind. The client’s talking about budgets like it’s the end of the world. I’m nodding, but inside, I’m screaming.

Photo: Remembering mask dance maestro, Mbah Karimun