Living in Delhi or Mumbai you may be puzzled by the title but the Indian I refer to is what we now call Native Americans.
When I was 4-6 years-old Native Americans didn’t exist, well they did but they were Indians and they fought cowboys. I spent many happy hours riding my Palomino (mum’s old bike) around the plains (abandoned aerodrome) slaughtering said
Indians Native Americans in defense of the fort (dads farm) or ranch (dads farm) My best friend was Johnny (imaginary) and my true love June (also imaginary) always at my side. Life was good. Until:
To quote Meatloaf, ‘Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night,‘ you awake for no reason you can explain. The bedroom door is ajar. And, illuminated solely by the moon’s glare, like Judy Garland in the spotlight, is the airing cupboard door! For the uninitiated: An airing cupboard is where a hot water tank was situated, before the days of combi-boilers. It was Mum’s domain with clothes folded in an impeccable fashion and no male was allowed in there. So where else would a revenge seeking
Red Indian Native American hide? I stared at that cupboard night after night. I was terrified because I knew he had a Tomahawk and was waiting to jump out to slaughter me. He never did (in case you’re wondering) But I guess it taught me that every action has a reaction, in a strange way 😘😘