Van top tot teen vol vogels zit mijn vader. Er hangen korenblauwe luchten in zijn lijf en vergezichten om bij weg te dromen en takken waar men, vogel zijnde, graag op slaapt.
De meest diverse soorten herbergt hij. Bijvoorbeeld in zijn hoofd iets hoogs, een torenvalk, een nachtegaal, een kardinaal of welbespraakten als de papegaai, alsook de ara
uit de karaokebar. Omstreeks zijn kolossale kont, daar wonen enkel en alleen de doodgewonen: kanaries, zebravinken, pimpelmezen, meerstemmig maar saamhorig in hem thuis.
Als al die vogels simultaan duizeling- wekkend aan het kwetteren slaan, kan ik de nagalm van zijn zwijgen horen. Nooit is het stil wanneer mijn vader zwijgt
Luuk Gruwez (Kortrijk, 9 augustus 1953) Kortrijk. Luuk Gruwez werd geboren in Kortrijk
“She was a doli-arthi prostitute of the Hatyapul, meaning that the terms of her employment stated that she was literally married to the job and would only leave on her arthi or funeral bier. She had had to go through a parody of a wedding ceremony, arriving, to the mirth of the street rabble, on a donkey-cart instead of the usual doli or palanquin. “Enjoy your wedding day, Skeleton, it’s the only one you’ll ever have,” shouted one lout, but the other prostitutes poured a chamber pot of warm urine over him from an upstairs balcony, and that shut him up just fine. The “groom” was the brothel itself, represented symbolically by the madam, Rangili Bibi, a whore so old, toothless, and squinty that she had become worthy of respect, and so fierce that everyone was scared of her, even the police officers whose job it theoretically was to close her business down, but who didn’t dare make a move against her in case she gave them a lifetime’s bad luck by fixing them with the evil eye. The other, more rational explanation for the brothel’s survival was that it was owned by an influential noble of the court — or else, as the city’s gossips were convinced, not a noble but a priest, maybe even one of the mystics praying nonstop at the Chishti tomb. But nobles go in and out of favor, and priests as well. Bad luck, on the other hand, is forever: so the fear of Rangili Bibi’s crossed eyes was at least as powerful as an unseen holy or aristocratic protector. Mohini’s bitterness was not the result of being a whore, which was a job like any other job and gave her a home, and food and clothing, without which, she said, she would be no better than a pye-dog and would in all likelihood die like a dog in a ditch. It was aimed at one single woman, her former employer, the fourteen-year-old Lady Man Bai of Amer, currently residing at Sikri, a young hussy who was already receiving, in secret, the eager attentions of her cousin Crown Prince Salim. Lady Man Bai had one hundred slaves, and Mohini the Skeleton was one of her favorites.“
