I note down three things I am grateful for every night in my Notes app. I feign grace. I lack faith. 

I was a better writer at twenty because I was more depressed. No longer do I feel compelled to write, nor do I harbour any affection for the words I write. Blame the SSRIs. But I am not a writer at all. 

As a child I waited eagerly for my birthday, buying new outfits for the occasion. Excited over the attention I would get. Attention-seeking. 

It’s not real. It is just another day. Yet I am reminded of the passage of time and my inability to do something about it. 

I hate writing in first person, there is too much of myself. But anything I end up writing has too much of myself. 

As a child I used to think I would die at eighteen. Adulthood seemed like the afterlife. I never had a well thought plan. I convinced everyone my animosity towards myself was a tool for improvement. It was never a decision I made, this hatred. I do not have the ability to be anything but cruel towards myself. Coaxed in misery, I believe it will ward off more misery. Comfort found in helplessness. 

At ten years of age, I was a fairly happy kid. I had friends. I was athletic, to an extent. I had yet not realised I despised my father, yes he was eccentric but I couldn't process it. I did not care about getting the highest grades. I did not have ambitions. If you had asked me what I wanted to be back then, I'd have said ‘astronaut’, ‘popstar’ or a ‘writer’. I did not know how, and did not care. I cried and felt no shame. I talked to trees and plants alike. I would find the best hiding spots and pride myself on it. Once, I was hiding in one of those spots. I felt safe, accomplished that nobody would be able to find me. They'd lose. I'd never tell anyone where I hid. But I kept waiting. Sweat trickled down my temples, and my calves itched from mosquito bites. Time passed. Thirty minutes approximately. I could no longer hear the voices of my friends. I cautiously walked out, only to find emptiness. Nobody was there. They had given up on finding me. They did not bother. I felt neglected, alone, and yet victorious. I stopped playing hide and seek, but never quit hiding. Could you find me? Every time you hide, isn't there a little part of you that yearns to be found? Even if it means you lose. 

Things I am grateful for:

I turn twenty-two next week

No nightmares 

The air-conditioner stopped leaking

I am also unborn. The Cambrian explosion. Pangea falls. Dinosaurs rage through earth. Primordial soup. Our nascent solar system, colliding and colluding into stability that only comes with passing time. They say Jupiter is a failed star. Is that why the storm never resolves? The moon is sculpted. Our universe, in its fiery infancy. The Big-Bang. Mathematical equations work the same throughout time, but they tend to break down at that moment. 

I am alive. Flesh and blood. A product of billions of years of evolution. Searching for a purpose. Maybe it was to look. The superposition must collapse. The painting must be tainted by eyes to be called art. Betelgeuse must not erupt in a night sky without watchers. An ephemeral symptom of the inherent need to be seen. 

The cosmic theatre builds its own audience, crippled by fallacies of entropy and time. Imprisoned within three dimensions. Time. If we were four-dimensional beings, we could walk through time like a park. I am. 

I am. 

Fractal sentience of fated decay. 

Faith is unlike love, which must be returned. 

You are not bound to have it— for a god, or a regime, or a person. 

She reiterates, every time we watch the news. People are killed, they do not just die anymore. Profit has taken precedence. She tells me how she does not see sparrows anymore. As a child, she used to catch fireflies. 

People were killed then too. People kill people, they continue to do so. But you witness it more now, every five minutes on twitter or while scrolling through instagram. In your face. Slaughtered children reduced to ash and fragments of flesh. Viewer discretion advised. Government-sanctioned apocalypse. Forests falter, but a tech giant somewhere has created a virtual reality simulation of the fallen trees. You can even hear the crickets singing. 

People kill people. Isn’t that the way of life? A primal response, some argue. Survival of the fittest. 

People kill people. Hope is a pebble in a rich man’s shoe. Faith is affordable. Liberating to an extent. I suffer because God has a plan for me. I will die but spend eternity in heaven. It might even be true. My mom does not know the answer, she isn’t god. No one is. 

Those in power think they are God. To be worshipped, never doubted. Kneel at their feet as they drive a stake through your hearts. They probably have a better plan for you. God’s men are obedient. And there is only one God. He forgives your sins. But those with another or no faith shall burn endlessly in hell. Blasphemy, all of it. You may kill for your God, he might reward you. Spread his word, you evangelist coward. Gouge your eyes out and follow blind. Cut out your tongue and leave it to rot. 

God has never had to kill people. People kill people.

Success without failure is like food without salt. 

I had a doubt, what about desserts? But you get the point. It has stuck with me throughout these years. I have come up with my own versions of it explicitly based on my experiences. Failure is like being slapped awake from a sweet slumber. Failure is looking forward to eating mangoes the entire day and going home to find out they have gone bad. 

At sixteen, I sat for an entrance exam which translated into the most colossal failure I had partaken in. I had wanted desperately to get a good college out of my state, somewhere far away. I could not fulfill either of those choices. I was allotted a college thirty kilometres from my home. I could appear for the examination again, but I was too certain of my misfortune (translates to: I had an undiagnosed anxiety disorder). So I settled. In the following years, my feelings of inadequacy escalated exponentially. I despised myself, I still do. Simultaneously I pitied myself— the epitome (or the bottom point) of the failing self. 

Self-pity made me selfish, believing that I suffered more than others, or deserved more than others. I was devoid of any form of kindness. I was nice to my peers. Even managed to make a few friends I adore now. Yet, my morality was poisoned by my setbacks. I knew what was the right thing to do, but I was plagued by thoughts of cruelty and apathy. I could not recognise myself. My first year in college was coming to terms with my self-proclaimed failure. I did not feel I had accomplished anything, quite the contrary. I had betrayed myself, my dream, and everything I had worked for— by being afraid. I forgave myself, even though I did not feel I had made a mistake. I was divided in two— one part of me, the victim of ill-fate, the other was the disciplined face of justice.

To live fully, one has to live with the choices one makes. Maybe a gap year would’ve landed me some place faraway where I didn’t have to clarify the name of my college repeatedly. Or I would’ve scored lesser— aggrieved and hurling into a depressive spiral. I may never know. Regret is a hungry black-hole embedded into the fabric of my life. 

Four years and a course of antidepressants later, I think I am at peace with my circumstances. No action of mine can change anything in this regard. Through this hopeless mudhive I have found quite a lot I cherish. I have made friends I never would’ve met otherwise. A boy who makes origami flowers for me. The privilege to be able to go home on a whim and surprise my grandmother, to spend time with her because she only grows old. Try out different ice-cream flavours with my mom every weekend— she loves praline. 

I do get reminded of my shortcomings, I still feel regret— but I also feel a million other things. A person is not an assertion-reason question. There might as well be no reason. 

The future seems terrifying due to similar reasons. Will anything I do be enough? I do not know. 

A giant failure, all of it. Or a lesson in humility. Or food without salt. Perhaps a dessert!

such culinary fondness.

Bulbs of ceramic covered in tender fascia—

I peel them away standing in my poorly lit kitchen,

silence. My growing nail hurting the fragile thing,

green protrusions from its tip—

wishful germination,

painful rumination.

My knife— a tool, a weapon.

Individual cloves on the cutting board

chopped into irregular minuscule bits,

thinking about it— days gone, weeks to come,

home alone, certain failures to outrun.

The blade punctures my thumb—

cue scarlet, blood runs loose

into the minced garlic, then the creases of the wooden cutting board,

a river unstoppable. 

My blood longs to leave my body—

I understand, I do. In a saute pan now—

fresh garlic. Butter sizzle. Golden, then brown.

Consumes the kitchen with an olfactory trance,

the bleeding stops,

hot butter pops onto my skin— transient intense heat.

I add sliced button mushrooms,

watch it shrink, like I did in middle school.

Salt. Cautious sprinkle in the pan—

then black pepper, such an indomitable spirit.

Watch the mushrooms minimise,

they must feel small as I do sometimes.

I turn the heat off,

eat it off the pan— call it a day, and lay in bed.

I can construct an outline of our entire relationship. A legend of sorts. I often use meals as an anchor for memory. 

Biryani at a bustling famous outlet, only one in the city. We had to wait for a table. Chicken kebab. It was your favourite place. You told me about the mold in your room. I laugh when I am nervous, which is most of the time. We walked later to another place you liked. On the way, we detoured into a deserted lane where a courier service was located— you had to come here when one of your orders wasn’t delivered. In the cafe we tried brownie cheesecake, I never thought of combining two such elements. And ice-cream. You were spotted by an acquaintance. Amidst cordial conversation you introduced me as your girlfriend.

Watching Mulholland Drive with unhealthy snacks in hand and gatorade. Falling asleep halfway. We decided to watch Twin Peaks someday.

When we were drunk and summoned my appetite like an evil spirit, you ordered a rice bowl for us. I ate most of it, leaving nearly nothing for you. Reese’s peanut butter cups. Jalapeño flavoured potato chips, awfully pungent.

The night of my birthday. I had to catch a train to Kolkata. You appeared last minute on the coach, chocolates in hand, a book by Clarice Lispector, along with a card you made for me. It was sweet and almost made me cry. Lyrics of “Last Night on Earth” by Green Day with quirky illustrations. A note— for my forever favourite poet.

One evening we went to another cafe to have ramen, you were distracted and sad. But you rolled your fork in the bowl, stabbed a piece of chicken, swirling it towards my mouth— guarding the bite with your palms under. 

Late at night we went to buy a game or two. Astrobot and Split Fiction. My pesto sauce— an abomination. But you were so happy I did not care. Late September, pleasant breeze.

You had made a ridiculously complex Jenga tower the night we ate an overpriced grilled chicken sandwich after watching Marty Supreme without subtitles in the theatre. 

Garlic toast, alone in the mall. Because of work, you could not make it. Overcast sky. October. 

Christmas eve dinner with an annoying group of friends sitting nearby. We exchanged looks of mild disgust. Raised eyebrows. Gestures of puking. Bouts of laughter intervened. We had pizza again. 

Recently, in an Indian restaurant, families dining stared at us as if we were thieves in respite, pulling a museum heist.

We got our hands dirty dipped the garlic naan in chicken butter masala. Separate it from the bone, into more gravy. We thought about how this is not the place for a first date, or a second, or third. And there is more to the prospect of love than four hands drenched in curry, scared to lose a battle against implied sophistication. 

I had come to realise I loved you in August. I was making pasta for myself. Simmering garlic in the pan. The sky meanwhile was recovering from a heavy downpour. A feather lightness in my chest. I added black pepper and salt. With the aroma, came an epiphany.

This love of ours, a homely dish I return to every now and then. 

The first time I prayed was at four years old, for my cousin to not find her journal which I had vandalised with pink glitter pen.

Then for my mom to come back safe after work. For my grandmother to have a long life.

A prayer request box in the corner. I no longer believe—

God is here, now. I write down in red ink solemnly and confidently. Will,

not may. Not exactly a prayer, a promise. But aren't all prayers a sort of promise?

I fold the bit of paper and put it away in the abyss with other prayers. My mother, grandmother, friends, and him. I prayed for them to be happy. Out in this cruel world, my nascent wishes— I am sure they will be looked after. By other bits of paper. We sit in the chapel for some more time. The sun transcends the stained glass silently. Gentle column of air. I never found my faith in the divine. I found it nowhere at all. But that is not to say I do not believe. I do not know, that's all.

I remember wanting to pray for one last thing— I had disposed of the prospect. A selfish prayer. Do selfless prayers exist? I sprint back. Hold the warm body of that red pen in between my fingers again, and write in big capital letters

I WANT US TO BE TOGETHER!

My mother no longer believes in God. The cathedral still stands. And light travels, at the same speed it did billions of years ago.

I am attuned to disappointment, akin to you. I know I am better than this, but a voice inside flickers like an ancient jaundiced lightbulb that just won't die— maybe I am not worth remembering. I know it is untrue. A blip in the continuum. Ensues a butterfly effect. And my evening tumbles, as if a weak empire. As if one of your promises.

I am alone in memory, hanging on to silken threads hoping they'll hold. I remember you. The shadow of you fading gradually— a cowardly ghost. I remember not knowing I could not depend on you. Noted neatly in my emotional inventory as years went by. I know better. 

Some believe forgiving you would liberate me. I am in no possession of such a virtue. Maybe I get it from you, along with this melancholic infirmity.

I know sorrow follows a distinct path in each person, so our roads may never converge. You can tell yourself that I am a difficult child so you can sleep well at night. One day as you walk on your designated trail, old and frail from age, all by yourself, asking god why it had to end like this— I hope the answer silence gives is enough. 

Why must I be so vindictive?

Because I remember.

I grew up in a haunted house. In the rooms lingered a ghost. I am sure there were more. But he was special to me. Slender silhouette of his. Used to be a father, he. How did you die? He didn't remember. Unending time. Eternally forsaken. He looked after me. On nights I suffered nightmares, he hovered over me- an angel of sorts. We used to play hide-and-seek together. Too good at it, he was. I asked him one day, Would you desert your daughter?  

Let her go on thinking you aren't there because she broke a ceramic plate. So she refuses to hold anything that could break. Would you make a promise you could never keep?

Why did I ask? Just a curious child. The ghost and I spent summers together. He taught me how to fix a leaking pipe. I asked him if he'd come to watch my dance performance at school. I wish I could. I'd heard that one before. 

When I moved houses, I asked him if he'd accompany me. But alas! He was only a ghost. Should I become one, too?  Mom told me ghosts aren't real. It's supposed to haunt you.

I used to think you were a ghost. Invisible. Tending to important affairs in the realm of spirits. So you couldn’t be there.

I found in a dusty cupboard at home another dictionary and thesaurus in one which belonged to my parents. The limit of my definition of ‘giant’. 

Hours would pass like money carelessly spent fluttering through pages across the entire alphabet. A comfort of sorts. I could always have more words. More meaning.

Words were ether; both the medium and the object. Boundless. They did not exist in pages. Like how countries do not exist in the atlas. A record. It is important to keep a record of things. To remember. Dictionaries remember. Books remember. 

A palace I adorned with my favourite words.

Towards the end— zephyr. I had not heard of it before. It means— 'a light breeze'. I was content. I used the word ubiquitously, more often than not— inappropriately. It hardly mattered. I had found my word.

In the years to come, I went out of practice from this personal sport. I had Google. No longer my index finger carefully sifting through an ocean of words to find the one I had been looking for— joy no longer followed. Eureka! 

I still keep a record of words. Ones that fascinate me. Across languages. 

Words have two meanings. One— as per the dictionary you buy in middle school. The other— you assign as life passes by.

‘This is why it's not raining, you have already brought an umbrella!’ One of the guys chimes in. We all laugh. It is 5 PM when we reach. We take an autorickshaw to our hostel. We had to book a mixed dorm. And I have mixed feelings about it. When we enter our room, there are bunk beds all around, fourteen of them. Most of them are men. I get the lower bunk, and above me is a man. An exotic-looking man who could be cast as a Greek god. 

We walk through slim lanes, passing by street dogs and indolent cows. We are going to ‘Vaatika Cafe and Pizzeria’, the one in the film Masaan. It is right by Assi Ghat. We order cheese-and-spinach ravioli and an apple pie with ice-cream. Consuming this ravioli has to be one of the happiest experiences of my life. 

Happy and satiated, we visit Harmony Bookstore. We take our shoes off before entering, my preferred religion. The owner is chatty. A girl is conversing with him about hopelessness of incompetent nationwide organisations. Sparsh and I move gracefully through each shelf. Penguin classics. I go to the poetry section. The journals of Sylvia Plath! It is for two thousand rupees. I cannot buy it. I browse through. I end up purchasing ‘The country with no post office’. Sparsh gets ‘Kairos’. The synopsis entices us both. 

We return to the hostel and go upstairs to the terrace where loud music is playing. The people staying are relaxing, doing work, watching a cricket match, just indulging themselves. Liberty. Sparsh and I find a place to sit.

‘Should we get beer?’ She suggests.

‘We are not legal.’

‘We will ask politely.’

‘Okay.’

Five minutes pass by.

‘Go and ask!’ She says.

‘I can’t! I am too anxious.’

She goes and procures us two cans of beer. 

‘That’s my brave girl!’ I exclaim.

I hate beer. It tastes awful, but I drink it anyway. My mind slows down. 

‘What’s on your mind?’ Sparsh asks.

‘Nothing actually.’

‘Come on, just say something.’

‘Ah, it is so hot. I want it to rain so badly. And I want something definitive to happen with M. I feel like he’s just messing around.’

‘He sent you his childhood pictures. He must be serious.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything. Some days, he is just not there. Then he will just come back and show affection. I do not know what to think. The absence and inconsistency just induces so much anxiety.’

‘Cheers to us! Failing the Bechdel test as always.’

‘Fuck the Bechdel Test. We can talk about whatever we want. We can talk about stupid men, intelligent pigs, talented fish, constipated birds and anything that comes to our minds. What’s going on with you?’

‘Hm, nothing. T says he doesn’t want long distance since it has traumatised him in the past. But I like him so much! Man, I cannot get drunk. I will get another can!’

We are also having peri-peri fries and noodles. I feel full. She finishes up the fries and is unable to finish the other can of beer. So I finish it. I feel sane. 

The cricket match is going on. Team India makes an awesome catch. 

‘Woohoo!’ I scream in excitement along with others watching the match.

‘I can never get interested in cricket’, says Sparsh.

‘I can get interested in anything. I don’t know, it doesn’t take a lot to entertain me. It could be anything- cricket, horse racing, tennis, geopolitics, sudoku, quantum mechanics. Give me five minutes and I will get invested. Or it doesn’t even have to be an activity. I could sit here alone and look at people, or that tree in distance, the sky, feel the wind- make up a story about it all in my head, find some convoluted meaning in it.’

‘That is so impressive.’

We head downstairs to our dorm room. It is dark and quiet. Sparsh won’t climb up to her bed because it makes the entire thing shake. We turn on the little light by my bed and pull the curtain. We talk. I love talking to her. I love her. I could be sitting with her and feel no need to be a certain way. I cannot believe I almost lost her. 

I met Sparsh in December of 2022 when I enrolled in college. She was reading a book by Virginia Woolf in the Recreation Hall. Her hair was short and free. Her clothes- tidy and coordinated. ‘I need to be friends with her. This is my one shot at befriending someone similar to me’ I thought. I stalked her instagram profile. It was a blog with multiple aesthetically pleasing pictures of books. I thought I had found my soulmate. I was also unbearably scared. What if I fuck it up and she never wanted to talk to me for the next five years? I treaded lightly and carefully. Her birthday was in February. I bought her a poetry collection of Sylvia Plath, which bore a hole in my pocket. But there’s a price you have to pay for a profound connection. I could see it. Us being inseparable best friends for the rest of our college years(and life, if I got lucky). Sadly, I was admitted to the hospital from typhoid and pneumonia on her birthday. When I gave her the gift later on, she seemed happy. Mission accomplished. What I did not know was that she was suffering. It aches me that I could not(or did not) see it. I remember going to her room to ask for chocolate spread and finding her crying on the video call. I did not know what to do. I was nervous. I only asked ‘Are you okay?’ and she replied ‘yes.’

She went home in March and didn’t return for five months. She didn’t talk to any of us during that time. I missed her. I missed what could’ve been, which was quite selfish of me. Ultimately I decided that I was happy for her as long as she was happy. And if her happiness is not within two hundred metres of my radius, then that’s okay. I’d be more than happy to see her flourish far away if this place was too sickening for her.

And you know, she came back. 

We go to sleep. I try my best to fall asleep, but I just cannot. I keep waking up. It is 10 AM now. Day two. I am wearing something ethnic today. We go to Sparsh’s old school. There is a cafe beside it, which is run only by women. The weather is unbearable, I cannot walk even the smallest distances. Upon reaching the cafe, I rush towards the air conditioner. Pictures of various authors hang on the wall, right behind me is Virginia Woolf. 

We decide to order a soda drink, something called ‘banarasi aloo’, and a Mediterranean dish.

While we wait for food, sparsh explores the books here. Something from the children’s section is called ‘Raccoons On The Roof’, and she starts reading me the synopsis. ‘Find out whether the raccoons are friends or foes’, I am paraphrasing here.

The soda is awesome and refreshing. The rest is quite disappointing. 

‘I really wanted to know if those raccoons were friends or not!’ Sparsh says while we exit.

‘I guess we’ll never know!’

Starbucks is just about five hundred metres away. She challenges me to tell our order to the barista. And I succeed.

I am having an iced coffee(grande) and she’s having something related to ginger ale(tall). 

My coffee looks concerningly white, in a there-is-actually-no-coffee-in-it way. I drink it, and I cannot tell if I’m used to having awfully strong coffee or if they’ve forgotten to put it in there. Sparsh goes to the counter with my caucasian coffee. They replace it with a new one. At least this one has a hint of coffee. Her coffee tastes like coffee, which is a great thing.

We book a cab to some mall since Sparsh is uncomfortable in her clothes. We find nothing worth wearing, some cool overpriced men's t-shirts, and an eerie hopefully abandoned movie theatre.

‘Where do we go now?’ I ask, as I sweat from every inch of my skin.

‘Wait, we can go to Indica Bookstore.’

‘As long as we are not walking, I can go anywhere.’

We book an auto. It is seven minutes away, I am on the phone with the driver on the verge of tears. He finally arrives.

This bookstore is- different. There is a wind chime right by the door. It specializes in Hindi literature. Sparsh is having the time of her life browsing through various books by Manav Kaul. She ends up buying a couple of them. Then we go to another bookstore- ‘Universal Book Company’, and I love it. The wooden floorboards, the atmosphere. I would love to be a ghost here. We go through each section carefully, like two detectives running out of time.

‘Oh, I hated this one.’

‘This made me not pick up books for two months.’

‘Another Milan Kundera!’ She looks at me intently.

Meanwhile, another pair of girls is having a good time here as well. One of them plans on buying ‘The Stranger’ by Camus, but her mother politely declines, and the girl politely accepts her defeat. 

We stumble by the philosophy section and eye ‘Nausea’ by Sartre. The conversation turns towards Simone De-Beauvoir, and the ways in which her memoir traumatised us enough that we couldn’t finish it. We end up buying three books, one of them being the selected letters of Virginia Woolf. I do not understand her work sometimes, but I do understand her.

The toddler with those two girls accidentally falls from the stairs. For some reason, their mother scolds them for it. We are walking to Dashashwamedh ghat to observe the Ganga Aarti. On our way, we have some some panipuri and chaat. The place is crowded. We find ourselves a quiet place to sit by one of the pillars. Meanwhile there is a man who keeps hounding people to get their pictures clicked. Another selling lemon tea. Another trying to get people to go on a boat ride. We are just here. Sparsh is reading her book in the sweet backdrop of the regal river Ganga. Wind blows. We click pictures of each other. We cannot sit here for long, so we decide to leave, against a wave of people going in the opposite direction. I wonder what it is like to believe in something so strongly. We stop by a small shop to purchase a bottle of water.

'Can I get a bottle of water please?' I ask the shopkeeper. 

'Sure thing. Do you need something else? Have you tried Lassi? You're in Banaras after all.'

'Oh, no. No that's fine. Just the water.'

We return to the hostel. We are too sweaty to tour around, so we decide to take a shower. I go to the bathroom with my all-purpose soap, a small hand towel, my other outfit, and tenacity that is going to cost me a lot.

I do not know how modern taps work. You slide it to one direction, push it in, or pull it, and suddenly the shower has turned on and your hair is wet and you didn't plan on washing your hair, so you are now trying to salvage it by using your anti-acne soap as shampoo, but it is not lathering well. There are strands of hair stuck to the soap and it is absolutely disgusting. Somehow you manage to wash your hair successfully. Now you are mopping the floor because there is a sign that says you have to keep the floor dry. And you are trying your best to slide every ounce of water towards the drain, but for some reason there is still a lot of water on the floor! Your entire body is damp and all you have is a small hand towel. You try to dry your hair a little with it and wipe your body, but it has absorbed all the water and worry that it can. 

You put on your clothes anyway and they stick to your skin. You get out finally. 

I narrate this harrowing tale to Sparsh. She just laughs. We decide to go to this cafe nearby to get dinner. It is supposed to be a rooftop cafe, and it is located in midst of dark alleys and shady streets. But we make it there. We have to take our shoes off. There are carpets everywhere. On the walls are names of innumerable people, probably the ones who visited here, boldly written in chalk, with hearts and innocent doodles alongside. We all have this ferocious need to be remembered, and remember. We want to feel special. We wonder if we are alone. We send satellites into space, voyagers into depths of our galaxy, we want to know. We do not know what, but we like to know everything that there is. Curiousity kills the cat, are we any better? And what does it matter if there are extraterrestrial being somewhere unfathomably far away who probably won't understand us? We are here, right now. We belong to the same species and do not bother to know each other. There is a longing, a deep and unexplained longing, to find meaning. These names written in chalk could mean nothing to some. Everything to those who have marked themselves on the wall of a cafe in a  city that remembers no one and everyone. It means something to me. If I write my name  here, would someone notice? Would someone with my name find some sort of joy in it? I don't know.

Sparsh orders peach iced tea for me, and Vietnamese coffee for herself.

'Your hair looks good somehow?' She says.

'You are being sarcastic!'

'No, I swear.' She takes a picture. It does look good. I did not think that anti-acne soap would do for my hair what high end luxury hair brands couldn't accomplish for years.

We end up going to another cafe. Apparently, Nat Geo recommends it. The setting is very cozy and homely. The menu is diverse. The prices are spiking, and  we are panicking. 

We order Mexican burrito bowl with salsa. There is a dog here, he has cataract. We go through the books kept in the dainty shelves. Paintings hang above. We are a little perplexed when the order arrives. There is no bowl. But seriously, the rice is of cheap quality. The salsa is inauthentic. And there is curd for some reason. The owner of  the cafe is sitting on the table adjacent to us, so we cannot complain, even to each other. We eat silently while glancing periodically at one another. For dessert, we order peanut butter caramel ice cream, which arrives in a coffee mug. It has banana, dragon fruit, apple, peanut butter, a hint of caramel, and just a little bit of vanilla ice-cream. We strike up some small talk with the owner who tells us about customers who borrowed books but never returned them.

'I feel like we got mugged', says Sparsh as we leave.

'Certainly feels like it.'

Back in the hostel, we are on the terrace again. Just chatting up this time, because last night our purchases here cost us a lot(eight hundred rupees).

We go to sleep. It is slightly easier tonight. 

Day three. We wake up late again. We go to Roma's cafe and end up ordering prawn sushi. Neither of us knows how to use chopsticks. I search up a quick YouTube tutorial. I try to teach Sparsh, but I do not know  enough myself. Our sushi ends up drowning in the  sauce.

'I have had enough', I proclaim as I grab the fork and stab the sushi with it.

She joins me. 

We end up going to another mall. This one, a little decent. I am eyeing a yellow collared cropped shirt while she gets herself a denim dress that looks like it was designed for her. I buy the shirt and wear it immediately. 

We go to a bar next. It is nearly empty. The interiors look a little tacky if I am being honest. We sit on the sofa and a man gets us the menu. No, he is not a bartender. Even if he is, it is the  afternoon so it hardly matters. I order a Long Island Iced Tea and Sparsh orders herself absolut vodka. She also orders a can of beer. She is finally drunk and it makes her glad. Meanwhile I am feeling slightly tipsy. The physical symptoms outweigh the mental ones. My hands and feet are riddled with pins-and-needles. I also feel slightly dizzy. She ends up sending voice notes to a guy.

She suggests we order something to eat. We ask for cheese balls, and they arrive.

‘I expected smaller cheese balls’, she exclaims.

‘Don't you like that they're big?’ I laugh.

She goes on to talk about Dostoevsky. She hates Tolstoy. She is giggling a lot.

‘I want to sleep on your lap’, she says.

‘Go on’, I reply. 

She gets up, walks across the space and puts her head on my lap. I stroke her hair. She got a haircut recently, a pixie cut. 

‘Are you scared we might become alcoholics?’ I ask.

‘We don't have that kind of money. Also I like that it is a bit difficult for me to get alcohol. I don't Like things just being given to me.’

‘If I were rich I don't know if I would care about alcohol, I'd have other things a.k.a. money to fill stupid voids in my personality and life.’

‘I feel so odd,’ She says.

‘Why do you feel odd?’ I ask with genuine concern.

‘I feel hot!!!’ 

Hours go by, she sobers up. We book a cab back to Assi Ghat. We are gleefully persuaded by one of those boat ride recruiters. The sun is about to set. I am with Sparsh on a boat in Varanasi. It is hot. My life doesn't really have any real problems if I think about it. The boat starts. The water splitters on me every once in a while. The wind is strong. My hair swept to one side and I ask her to click a picture of me. She reads a book. We look at each other every few minutes and smile. The names of ghats change almost every couple of hundred metres. Names. Who are names for? I often wonder if they matter. If I did not have a name, people wouldn't know how to address me. If I didn't have a name, I would still know who I was. People, places, or anything for that matter should not be reduced to nouns. We are much more than that. 

On one end, finite water. The other, ghats pass us by. By Manikarnika Ghat, I can see the endless pyres. The burnt. The dead. The alive. The finitude of it all.

Having watched all movies of the Final Destination franchise in childhood, I developed a habit where I imagine dying at any given moment, especially when I'm happy. You could also blame my anxiety. I imagine dying here, right now. The boat capsizes. We all sink. Maybe my body will never be found. My mother back home will grieve for the rest of her life. People will pity me. What a cruel thing to die so young! My other friends will be sad. Eventually, time will betray memory and they will forget to remember me. All my pointless wailing over substandard men will cease. My body will rot. And what about me? I am not my body. Am I? My atoms will betray me. They have other things to be. If they can betray a star or two, then who am I to tell them that they need not be dead and decay? 

We return after about an hour, I lost all sense of time. We go to Vaatika Cafe to have our regular. The waiter is unusually nice to us. The ravioli is good, but it doesn't feel as astounding as it did the first time. 

We sit on one of the steps by the ghat. Sparsh goes to a tea stall while I wait. I feel tired today.

‘The shopkeeper talked to me in English!’ She says.

‘Wow.’

‘He was asking for change and I thought he was asking if I wanted sugar in my tea, so I replied likewise.’

‘Maybe he was trying to impress you.’

‘Of course.’

We go back to the hostel. She asks me if I want to go back to the ghat for some quiet, but I am exhausted tonight so I decline. 

I try to fall asleep. She comes by midnight. I have put an alarm for 7 AM. We have a train to catch.

We wake up and pack our things. We leave. On our way, we get coffee. It is awful and burnt. We book an auto to the train station. Since we are early, we go to the lounge. We book a sofa, not a recliner. Hunger makes itself known and online food delivery apps are expensive so we settle on a microwave-heated pre-made burger. It absolutely sucks but I have it all.

‘What if we miss the train?’ I raise a question.

‘We won't. I have the app opened here. Don't worry!’ She comforts me.

She holds on to my hand. They're cold.

‘You have a mole here, right in the middle of your palm,’ She says.

‘You didn't know?’

‘No I noticed it right now.’

‘Apparently it means something.’

‘What?’

‘I forgot. Let me Google.’

It says that a mole in the middle of the palm means you are going to have ‘nerve disorders’ your entire life. Of course we do not believe in this sort of stuff, but it sure is fun. I show the web page to Sparsh. She laughs.

‘Close it!’ She says.

We exit the lounge. Our train is supposed to arrive on platform 9. The escalator doesn't work. There are a lot of people. We wait, and wait, and wait. Some other train arrives on platform nine. There are no updates on our train. I am panicking internally. After another tiring wait of twenty minutes, they finally announce that the train is arriving on platform 8.

‘I would've died if it was some other platform,’ says she.

‘Me too.’

Finally, we board the train. After a while it starts raining and Sparsh is really excited about it. The journey ends. We part ways(for three days). My Nani welcomes me as I return home. It is raining heavily. I take a shower while blasting my spotify playlist dedicated to such times. I wait for my mom to come back from the office and show her most of the pictures. 

About eleven years ago during summer break, my mom left for work at nine as she always did. A few hours later the doorbell rang. It was her. She had met with a minor accident. She had a stitch on her forehead. My aunt had accompanied her. I was so scared. As a child I always had a fear that something really bad would happen and I'd lose her forever. I was shocked. Did the peril from my sick mind leak into the real world?

I wanted to cry. But I ended up laughing. I wanted to hold on to her and never let her go. But I just laughed. How funny, the collision between two vehicles. She had thought I would be inconsolable. But I laughed. I did not want to be seen as vulnerable, at nine years old. I had taken my feelings and directed them inward. For how long— I do not know.

She could've died. I cried in the bathroom.

I always felt my feelings were an uninvited guest at a party. I felt a lot. I feel a lot. I lived a greater part of my life in denial of my great big feelings which ultimately caused a lot of pain— to my loved ones and myself. To be seen was the end. If you saw me, you would decide I was a haunted thing. You would leave. So it would be better if I left first, right? Keep running from one city to another, never let yourself be defined by anything tangible. Never let yourself love. Oh, but it comes so naturally to me. No, you must beware. Keep that muscular beating organ safe. But hearts are meant to be given.

I did not look my father in the eye because I did not want to feel even an ounce of kindness for him. I broke up with a guy because I felt I needed him too much. I turned away friendships because I thought I had become codependent. I stopped sending my poems to pretentious literary magazines. I stopped putting myself out there. I had become a passive watcher of my life. Never putting things into action because I was so horribly afraid. Scared of the world hurting my great big feelings. I ended up sabotaging my life out of fear. Better self-inflicted hurt than someone else.

When I got diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety Disorder (GAD), I knew I had to quit my old self-wallowing-and-or-self-pitying-while-selfishy-experiencing-events-calling-it-life lifestyle. My great big feelings weren't weeping toddlers in a supermarket, but they weren't the grumpy manager of the store either. I was the manager. I feel so deeply, somewhere along the way I convinced myself it would be easier to not feel at all. Cue in glorious avoidance. After exponential compartmentalisations, I had nothing left. My life was a dusty storeroom filled with infinite boxes that mustn't be opened. But one day I decided to do it anyway. An emotional anaphylaxis.

I cried for days, and weeks after. It was liberating. Hiding implies shame. I was not in hiding anymore. I told my mother how petrified I was of losing her, how petrified I am of most things. I informed my friends I love them immensely, and I continue to do it. I send poems to literary magazines which end up rejecting me most of the time. I do not care. The sun is strong today. It rained heavily last night, the sky had great big feelings. But it's light today. I found someone who loves me too. It scares me, yet I do not contest its sanctity. The fear of an end must not mangle simple existence. I am.

I belong, undeniably.

Every weekend I go home. This one is no different. I've hidden away my meds in the stationary box. My mom and grandma are always glad to see me. They love me unconditionally. I could refine the statement. My mom thinks she loves me unconditionally, my grandma surely does. There is something liberating about not being responsible for a child that grows up around you. Not being the one pointed at when that child makes a mistake. Makes you kinder, and more loving. My Nani calls me every Thursday night to discuss what I want to eat for lunch on Saturday. This time I'm having some paneer dish. I can never quite make out the difference between every different variety of paneer dish, I only know that paneer butter masala tastes a bit sweet. My mom probably watched thrice a YouTube tutorial to cook the food. Laced with sweat on her face and hope, she garnishes it all with freshly chopped coriander, or cilantro to make it sound fancier.

‘How is it?’ She looks eagerly at me.

I am nervous. I tear a piece of roti and pick up a piece of paneer with the gravy. All I can taste now is how hot it is.

‘It is hot.’

‘Take your time, no worries.’

My mom doesn't cook. She doesn't like cooking and she has very little interest in it. Growing up, she was the ideal child who studied and got the best grades. Her father, although a supportive man, was weak. My apologies. May he rest in peace. He would get sick all the time, especially around my mom's exams. He expected a lot from her. A lot. One time, while lying in the hospital bed, with the family around along with the doctor, he said, ‘I will get better when my daughter becomes a doctor.’

She did not. But she tried, thrice. She then decided to give an entrance exam for a bank, but couldn't get that job either. Her English was quite poor, she had always been in Hindi medium institutions. Eventually, she started preparing for civil services. And she qualified in her third attempt. When a big promotion was offered to her, she declined because it was in a district a few hours away. Her husband refused to support her. Her own mother was scared. What would happen of her poor only child? Who would take care of her, if not her mother? She was really happy those few months she went to work. She’d take the train, it was an hour away. She would converse with fellow passengers. She loves to talk. She had her own office, her own car, and authority nobody could doubt(except her superiors, of course). She was so excited. She had power, and it didn't make her vain, it made her lively. I had never seen her so tired, yet so joyous.

Leaving that promotion tore her apart. She resented everyone, but she was ashamed of it. She shouldn't have been ashamed. She should've been angrier, screamed at her incompetent husband and naive mother. But there would have been no reason to leave the job, had I not existed. I have thought about it a lot. I do not know if it is my narcissism that makes it all about me. Had she not married a stupid man, she would've been free. She would've lived the life she wanted. She'd have taken that promotion and a hundred more. She would've been rich, living in a big house in a big city doing whatever came to her mind. I wouldn’t exist, but so wouldn't the pain of having me as a daughter. There is nothing I can do about that. I know she chose to have me, and I know she chose me every step of the way. I know that is what every parent is supposed to do. But she is not just a parent. She is a person too. It used to make me loathe myself, being an obstacle in my mother's success. But I've tried to apply a happier train of thought. She loves me, there is no doubt about that. She loves me more than anything and anyone in the entire universe. She raised me. I've inherited her forehead, her smile, her nose(she hates it by the way, and it's offensive). I have also inherited her fears, her pain, her anxiety, her need to fix things, her self doubt. Her dreams. Seeing her in my early years inspired me. Even now it does. She does it all alone, and it scares her. She cannot leave my father, because of reasons I do not understand. I respect her. I shout at her sometimes. I am rude and mean. I do not apologize. I am stubborn. And she loves me. We love each other.

When I was five years old,

my eyes were golden under the sun

and my hair coiled around itself like a fragile tendril-

I had inherited those curls from my mother-

along with others-

our stubborn nose,

the edges of her smile,

the extent of her rage,

the fear of progressing age,

the anxiety of our days,

the primal need to scream,

the need to dream,

the need to reach for the highest shelf

knowing we aren't tall,

not at all.

But a few years ago, I bought a hair straightening tool-

and burnt those curls to a crisp.

Does the moon ever wish to be the sun?

Do the other planets torment him just because he is the moon?

Every now and then-

my curls arrive in weak waves

and wash me over with shame

and a mother's disappointed sigh-

Why should you try to be the sun if you are too gentle to burn?

‘You know, summer is my favourite season’,

‘Why?’ He asks.

‘I think it's the sun or the ice cream. I like the warmth of green that summer gives to trees. The blue of the sky. The uncaring nature of the sun. The heat, the sweat. My ceiling fan and air conditioner are loud enough so I can sleep peacefully without the constant noise of the passing nature of my life, reminding me that I have achieved nothing and I am running out of life and time.’

‘Oh’,

‘Don’t bother yourself. Do not think so much. I am here, you are here. We’re happy’,

‘Are you?’

Am I?

‘Yes.’

I wander off to the garden. It is April and summer is early. It looks so bright. There is a section dedicated to chrysanthemums, I want to pluck them right off. The grass is hurting my ankles. The soil is dry, I feel it in my soles. There it is, the wall. Could I make a run for it? Could I climb and jump off and run away? Where would I go then? The streets are empty, my feet are known to be weak, and the airplanes have been rotting away flightless, If I ran away, would he chase after me? I would be repulsed if he did. I would be distraught if he didn’t.

‘Do you want to eat something?’ His voice is a breeze.

‘Sure’, I reply.

‘This pasta is good, I didn’t know you could cook’,

‘I know a few things’, He smiles.

It tastes nice. He likes garlic and black pepper. The prongs of his metal fork clash with the sweetness of the ceramic plate, it is annoying. So annoying. Just stop. There’s nothing left to look for in the plate.

We watch a movie. Eternal Sunshine Of the Spotless Mind. I had been trying to make him watch it for two years.

‘Do you think you would erase me from your memory if we broke up?’ He enquires.

‘If I could.’

He is offended.

‘Wouldn’t you like to remember us? The good times. Regardless of how it ends.’

‘If it brings me too much pain, I’d choose to forget’,

‘You are a coward’,

‘Would you remember me?’

‘Always’,

‘You lie to yourself’,

‘You just hate yourself too deeply to believe otherwise.’

It is evening already. I have been sitting on the sofa for about an hour now. This house is so big, yet it suffocates me. Is there not enough air here? I catch a breath every now and then, trying to expand the contracting aperture of my windpipe. I am drowning.

We have dinner. I remember drinking a lot of water.

I go to the bathroom and wash my face. In the mirror I see that my eyes have a bit of brown in them, they had always been black.

‘My eyes were always black right?’ I ask frantically.

‘I think so’,

‘Well they’ve changed’,

‘Haha, that’s impossible. You must’ve never looked so carefully. Light changes things like that, don’t worry’, He reassures me.

Light changes things like that, light changes things like me. It changes me. Would I be who I was in a different kind of light?

‘I love you’, He declares. He passes off a sweet smile.

He loves me.

I say nothing. He knows, he must know. I’m sorry.

The lights are off. My eyes must be black now. No cars are honking around, it is only 10 PM. He’s breathing, the fans are moving. He’s breathing, he’s a gush of wind leaking through the cracks of my window. He must be at peace.

I get out of bed. I walk stealthily out the door. The stairs arrange themselves in a peculiar geometric fashion. They seem absurd if I’m being honest. I run upstairs, passing by rooms that must not be opened for some of them have creatures banging at the doors. I must not give them any attention, I need to get to the roof. I need to see the stars. My muscles fatigue. The steps never end. I must see the sky. I will ask him tomorrow to take me to the roof. I shall demand him to open all these doors. I am tired. Breathless, I crash on one of the stairs resting against the wall. The wall is cold, so I put my hand over it. It is chalky blue, the wall. For some reason, it dares to flow into me, the tip of my fingers, the palms next. I am terrified, I pull my hand away. I want to scream. I want to call out for him. Or anyone. What if this is just a silly dream? It is 1 AM and I am at my boyfriend’s home going insane. I put my head between my knees and hands around it, I try to sleep.

‘Wake up! What are you doing here?’

I am on the floor of the living room.

I don’t know.

‘I don’t know’,

‘Didn’t take you for a sleepwalker, huh’, He jokes away.

I chuckle.

‘I had a bad dream’, I tell him.

‘You should have woken me up then’,

‘I know’,

‘Let’s go out for a walk’,

‘Out?’ I am excited.

We put on our masks and move out. The neighbourhood is nearly empty. I feel okay now.

‘I think your house does not like me’, I try to make light out of it.

‘Why is that?’

‘I don’t know, I feel a bit trapped’,

‘It is a pretty big house, you know’,

‘Yeah, I guess I’ll try.’

On the way we stop by an isolated patch of red poppies, and he gets me one.

‘Thank you. It is my second favourite flower’,

‘What is the first? Lilies?’

‘Orchids’,

‘Fancy. Roses are red too, so why don’t you like them? Are you afraid of liking something popular and being labeled as basic?’

‘No, not at all. The red of a rose has a sort of darkness to it, almost as if it is hiding a secret. Poppies are just unapologetically red. Also, what is your favourite flower?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t care for them’,

‘Then what do you care for?’

‘Things that last’,

‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever’,

‘Depends on how you define beauty’,

‘How do you define beauty?’

‘I don’t know. To me, beauty is strength. Perseverance. To me, there is more beauty in an ancient tree that has been around for centuries than a fragile eye-catching flower.’

‘We see the world differently. Time cannot always decide what’s beautiful. Sometimes, beauty lies in the fact that something isn’t strong, that it will not last.’

‘Fair enough’,

‘Am I a thing of beauty?’ I ask playfully.

‘Are you a fragile flower or an ancient redwood forest?’

‘I could be both’,

‘Of course.’

Birds are hiding in the foliage of a Gulmohar tree. The streets are mine, not his. The emptiness belongs to me. The archaic silence is interrupted occasionally by ambulance sirens. People are dying. The world is dying. I have nothing to do. There is nothing I can do. I cannot save the world, I cannot even save myself. Can he save me? He wants to. He wants to feel like a hero. He wants me to be grateful to him. He wants to be respected and loved. He wants to save me so he can tell himself he’s not as worthless as he thinks he is, like all of us do.

We’re home. I take a shower. The water is so cold, my lungs shiver, and I breathe as if there is a hollowness within me, sucking all the air that enters. I get used to it though. My hair keeps falling off.

I fall asleep on the couch. I wake up three hours later and make both of us iced coffee.

‘I know you were talking to J. before all this happened’, He speaks in a gentle voice.

‘What has that got to do with anything?’

‘You loved him’,

‘I don’t love him anymore’,

‘You cannot just be casually talking to him’,

‘You are just insecure’,

‘Really? I put up with all your little quirks, and you cannot comprehend what I say. Do you even listen to what I say?’

‘You don’t have to put up with it’,

‘You are just crazy’,

‘Don’t call me crazy. You just cannot trust me, it has nothing to do with me. Your sense of self is that small’,

‘It has everything to do with you!’ He exclaims.

‘You are not the only one who can scream!’ I shout, and I can feel the house getting angry with me. My voice echoes to an infinitum until the usual silence prevails. A door opens somewhere.

We go to sleep. It is April 7. 11 PM. Remember.

I cannot fall asleep, but I keep my eyes shut and cover my head in a thin blanket. I will not get out tonight.

Nothing happens. The next morning I go to brush my teeth and find my face covered in freckles. I still must be dreaming. I ignore it.

‘Have I always had freckles?’, I ask him.

‘It is not like they happen overnight, do they?’ He does not take it seriously.

He cannot see it. He cannot see me. I keep changing, for worse or for better, he does not care. He wants me to be good, he wants me to be flawless. He’d rather pretend I am perfect than see me for who I am. Or I think too much and the isolation is getting to me. He’s right, things like these do not happen overnight. I am still the same, I must be. I must not disappoint him, for he loves me. He’s the only one who does. Where would I go if he decides I am not as flawless as he thinks? He wouldn’t leave me, I know. I love him. I love him. I do, yes. I’m fine.

I go to a dimly lit room near the kitchen. It has stationery supplies, I pick up a pencil and a sketchbook. I’ve never been much of an artist. I can only make poorly stroked sketches, in pencil of course. I imagine us. He, in his grey T-shirt he likes too much. Myself, in my yellow-white sundress. We are in the cafe near our old school. We’ve never been there together, but we should have. The enormous vines encompass the entire background while we sit on carefully crafted wooden chairs with a cappuccino. He doesn’t know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino. We’re happy. I am happy too. The drawing looks funny, our faces are out of proportion, and his teeth look scary. I erase them and settle on a toothless smile.

I run around with the sketchbook in my hands like an excited child looking for her mother. He’s in the garden, so I go to the main door to get out. I try to unlock the handle, but it is locked. I bang at the door, and I scream. He opens the door.

‘You locked me inside?’ I ask, breathless.

‘It was an accident’, He justifies himself.

I show him the drawing. He looks happy. He smiles wide with his teeth- much like the one I attempted to draw but failed.

‘You are amazing!’ He’s ecstatic.

I must be. Well, that was easy. I could draw him a hundred such sketches and he’d be a glad fellow.

I think I spend a lot of my day sleeping, or just laying around. It is convenient. I don’t like to get up and eat, it is a hassle. I could just lie here, the carpet has some warmth. The ceiling is ordinary, but I’m not even looking at it. My eyes are open and up, but I am somewhere else. It is a magical place, quite literally. I am taller. The world is loud and awake. I am a cunning businessperson traveling to different countries every weekend. I love a man whom I also happen to like. Today I had prawns for dinner. Tomorrow we will be off to another land, farther away from this shrinking wasteland they dare call a city.

‘Dinner’,

It is rice and lentils.

‘Why do you do it?’ I ask.

‘Do what?’

‘All these things, for me. Aren’t you a little sick of it? I do nothing and you are out here taking care of everything’,

‘I don’t mind’,

‘There has to be a reason’,

‘Does it matter?’

‘I guess so. It changes the context if you’re doing it for me, or to quench some internal thirst’,

‘You think everyone is selfish because you are’,

‘I am not selfish’,

‘Have you tried putting someone else’s needs before yours?’

‘What are your needs?’

He sighs.

‘I’m sorry’, I don’t know if I mean it.

‘Do you even try? Do you even try to be happy when you get up in the morning? You are so scared of being disappointed that you have decided to be miserable before anyone can do that to you. I pity you, honestly. What a way to live! You are lucky you have me. Regardless of the gigantic mess that you are, I still happen to love you.’

‘You would love to make me miserable, wouldn’t you?’

‘See how you’ve missed the whole point?’

‘What do you want me to say? Oh, I am so grateful that you have decided to love the catastrophe I am. Where would I be without you? You are my hero. That is what you want to be, a hero. You are too weak to think of yourself that way, you need someone to make you believe it. I am not that person. And you are not a hero, far from it. Why can’t you just be a person? Why can’t you say what you feel? You only want to be the bigger person when you want to make me feel small.’

‘I cannot believe this. You are in my house.’

‘Then I will go’,

‘That’s not what I meant.’

I used to be a nice girl. I loved people, and I still do. But I've changed ever since the pandemic hit the world about a year ago. I used to be complete, I used to have a life, I used to work. I would walk and run, and get tired. I would come home and sleep easily. I would go out with my friends every once in a while. Sometimes I would laugh so hard, that I’d gasp for air and my abdomen would hurt. I held hands with all the people I loved deeply. I’d kiss them on their cheeks and foreheads. Air could not kill us then. I don’t know if things will be the same again. Will my years go by mourning something so normal? Will I have to miss the sound of crowds I found so annoying?

‘I just don’t care’, I say.

‘About?’

‘Anything. Everything.’

He closes shut the book he is reading and walks away. I lie here, there, wherever I am, motionless. I could stop him, but I won’t because I honestly do not care. Why am I even with him? It is comfortable, volatile, and familiar. Why is he with me?

I like to wear my wristwatch at all times, being able to look at the time makes me feel sane like I am in control. On our first date, I repeatedly kept looking at my watch. It was 12:10 PM. I was getting late, I had to get somewhere. I had somewhere to be, I had something to do. Now I have kept my watch away. It is quite useless. I have nowhere to be, and nothing to do.

I’m in the garden. I wonder if these plants can listen to me.

‘How are you?’ I ask the succulents.

‘I am doing alright, as much as one can be. How do you live in such stagnancy? You are always here. Nothing ever changes. Does it not drive you mad?’

They don’t answer. They must listen well, for they never interrupt.

I move over to the neem tree, it looks quite old.

‘How have you lived so long? I don’t think I ever could. I’m not as strong, or tall. You must have seen many things, did none of them affect you to the point of melancholy?’

Wind sways through the branches and a few leaves fall. I rest my hand on the cracked bark, watching infinite lines of ants passing by. Life has not stopped for them, they move just the same. I could crush them with ease. Should I? Why shouldn’t I? What difference would a few hundred ants make? Would I be somehow superior? Or would I just show my inherent cruelty? If I killed an ant without knowing so, would I not be cruel? If I lie and say I never saw these ants and killed them, would I not be cruel? To others, yes. But I would always know.

I crush the ants on the ground with my shabby Vans. I should feel guilty, evil, or superior. But I don’t. I feel nothing.

‘I killed ants’, I declare in this abomination of a house.

‘Good, Let’s have lunch’,

He does not care about a hundred ants.

We are watching TV and there is a cat in this movie.

‘I love cats!’ I exclaim.

‘I know’,

‘What are those cats called- the ones with very short legs?’

‘Short-something’,

‘NO!’

‘Shortlegs?’

‘No, idiot! That is shorthair’,

We laugh and the sounds reverberate through the seemingly hollow walls.

‘They can never get anywhere, with those short legs’, He adds.

‘I’m sure they can’, I refute.

‘They cannot, but it’s fun to watch them try’, He laughs some more.

There’s a new kind of coffee taking over the internet these days. We decide to give it a try. I take a small amount of water and add loads of coffee in it along with sugar.

‘You really do not have a frother or an electric whisk around here?’ I shout in disbelief.

‘I fight my own batters, also I’ve never needed them and I have never had coffee’,

‘Okay, we take turns and whisk.’

The mix is dark brown and smells bitter and sweet simultaneously. I start whisking it violently. It has been five minutes and I am tired. There are specks of a dark gold colour in between. He takes over. It has been twenty minutes now and the mixture isn’t as golden and light and frothy as it should’ve been.

‘Let’s just pretend we succeeded’, I struggle to breathe.

‘Shouldn’t we taste it first to see if everything is alright?’

‘You want to taste this?’ I chuckle and put some of it on my index finger. Does he not know how concentrated the coffee is? He has never had coffee. This is why I live.

‘You are absolutely right though, you should taste it’, I offer my support.

He spits it in the basin and drinks two glasses of water. I cannot stop laughing.

‘Now you know why the next step was to add this to a glass of milk’, I speak in between bouts of laughter.

‘You are so evil’, He states.

‘I thought you got used to it!’

For some reason, I fall asleep after drinking the coffee only to wake up at 2 AM with no intention of falling back asleep.

So I draw up a bath, light up a few scented candles, and put on some soft music. Finally, some peace.

The tiles are beige in colour, one in the corner is cracked. The bathtub is white, but I feel like it wants to be yellower. The shower gel scent is called ‘Noir’ and wonder why mine at home is called ‘Champagne Kiss’. The music is Tchaikovsky’s Black Swan, not as soft as I had intended. The bathroom is dimly lit by the scented candles. The water is cold, it barely grips my neck so I try to sink. The ceiling is white, but I feel like it wants to be blue. There is some sort of design at the junction between the wall and ceiling.

I sink deeper, my neck is submerged.

Some more, my mouth is taken, along with my tongue. I cannot speak. I cannot ask for help. I can only breathe. I can only keep living, knowing I cannot be saved, knowing I am drowning.

And deeper, my nose is lost to unyielding water. I cannot breathe now, I can only wait. Wait for the end. While my eyes see the world, and how empty it is. Nobody around to come to save me. I can still hear, yet I can only listen to my gurgling killer. Nobody to say ‘Come back up’, but even if somebody were, would I stop?

Further, water enters my ears and my hair swims at the surface. Winter makes a home in my head. I open my eyes to see a warped ceiling and ill-bordered walls moving with the current. But that is not how it is, is it? The walls have sharp borders, the ceiling is uniform, and I am happy.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ waves crash.

‘Are you fucking insane?’ He screams. He is not scared for me, he's scared of me. I am awakened. I was happy. I'm not anymore.

‘I just dozed off’, I reply.

‘Then there's something very wrong with you.’

The next morning. I'm in the garden. Lying on the grass as it makes its impression on my fragile tendril body. Wind ushers me to a message. Something I've been thinking of all along. Oh, but I'm so ashamed of it.

Leaves rustle. Translate a sentence, no. Just a word. One simple shameful word.

Leave.

Once I hear it, I cannot stop listening to it. I see the word everywhere. In the wet strands of hair on the bathroom floor as I shower. Leave. The marble tile. Leave.Veins in my hand. Leave. The ghosts that haunt this house. Leave. In the pauses between the words he utters. Leave. Every word of books I read. Leaves. In my dreams I write it down until my pencil breaks. Leave.

‘But why?’ I plead. No answer.

Where will I go? He loves me. What if nobody else does? What if no other man loves me this much? No answer.

‘I need to leave’, I tell him. The sun has set. The day darkens.

‘Why?’ He asks.

‘I don't know. I just- I feel trapped.’

‘I see.’

‘Really?’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I don't know.’

‘I love you, and if that's what you want, go ahead.’

‘I love you too. You’ll hate me’, my voice breaks.

‘Just a little bit.’