Tentative.

Parçe qu'il s'agit toujours d'initiatives et tentatives...

I have never had the practice of writing a blog and thus this message here becomes an honest tentative. It might not be what you want to read: a write-up on some common worldly issue or a new-found (maybe even old but revived philosophy) but it is certainly a minds battle, my minds battle, with my fingers, with the veracity and complexity of my statements and there coherence. I wish to deliver something through this text.

I feel, on a Sunday evening, after a satisfying dinner of steak and salad, a little restless and a little at a loss of expression.

The past two weeks were spent at a "chantier", a construction site for my internship with a construction company. I was the non- naturally Franco phonic member of this boy gang. The odd ball and so there source of extreme amusement. The fact that the currency was called 'Rupee' , me Priyanka, the fact that India did not position anywhere on the carte de Euro 27, the fact that cricket and not football was the craze became there source of light humour. I laughed with them when they came to lunch at 12. A one hour break after serious rigour of 5 hours. We heated our lunches in the microwaves placed in the portable cabins and lunched together. I usually didn't have a lunch that needed heating because it was sandwiches, cheese and 'yaourt' that i ate. Something that i packed in haste at the wee hours of the morning so as to report at the depot at 6 45! They called me Pochantas, Josephine or Marionette. Priyanka was a rare surprise.
The Boss was a meaty old chap, wicked to the core, who spared no one. Apparently, he'd spared me on virtue of being a girl. There was an old man who handled the remotes of the cranes. He'd become a good friend and we would talk while he operated. I'd met him first when i was walking to the company's offices and it being pitch dark in the morning, he'd asked me where i was heading. We were heading in the same direction, unaware of what was to follow. He was a French of Algerian descent. Monsieur Hassan I called him though he spelt it like Achen. He lived alone, and now that i think of it, his lassitude brought him to bring a lunch that resembled mine. Paninis they were, but unlike my sandwiches, they did neat the microwave. Profiting of the fact that he didn't have the earth to dig and walls to freeze, we spoke of many things under the sun. He said to me one day, something so simple that it struck. He said, "chacun a son propre chemin", that everyone has his own path. This simple clarity of thought made me like him immediately. I walked back till a common point with him. He even took me to the placefrom where he bought his paninis but alas! they had run out of the bread! Happened for the good- his paninis that he ate day after day would always be a source of inquisitiveness for me. I’d broomed their cabin once, and they though delighted they had dirtied it within hours. Coffee in the morning before starting work was something I looked forward to. There were so many things I looked forward too…

So, tomorrow I shall miss these fellas. These fellas who smoked like engines and worked liked engines too. Who joked around with me because they felt close enough too. Who made me coffee and gave me there greasy wooden pencils to stir.

I made them coffee on my last day. I shall miss them. They shall miss me too.