city girl primality 1

badan mein saanp chalte hain

For some reason I had a pregnancy scare, even though I knew it was impossible. The fear felt wrong because I have a belief that I am barren. Right now I am on my bed, the onset of periods settling in my body. It hurts here (thigh), it hurts there (lower abdomen). I am aware of my being and the physicality is being inflicted with pain, hence I am a proof of pain in a critical and tactile manner.

This is what was needed, after the past few weeks of being possessed by hurt in a ghostly sense. I was not myself, I was not visible to myself.

If you were to ask me WHAT IS TIME, I wouldn’t be able to answer. Winter? November? Nighttime.

There is relief in this pain, in the subdued winter hanging over my bed because I cannot sleep with closed windows — the mesh ones being the only barrier between me and the world, and lizards of course. There is some comfort on this bed under this fuzzy blanket even though no position seems to be right enough. I twist and turn, pretty soon I will writhe. If my leg cramps start acting up, I won’t be able to call out for help. I won’t stop the music on my phone and call my coworker who lives right across from me or my flatmate who sleeps in the other bedroom.

If I were to reach for the phone I would probably call Ishmael miles away, which should not be the case. He will not pick up of course, and if he does I won’t be able to speak and will end up making a flimsy excuse. Oh I was calling somebody else, greasy hands… etc. You know, the usual.

I am not preparing for the cramps, I am not preparing for the onset of eventual doom. I am waiting for it all though. I read something in The Autograph Man by Zadie Smith that reminded me of Maqbul and I merged it with a scene from yesterday to fit in my memory chamber.

It was just after lunch at work the day before, when I found my room empty. I sat down next to the window, the winter sun on me, and I continued reading. It was time for Zuhr, and since everything was quiet near me, I could hear the prayer call. I thought of people settling in to pray, I pictured my loved ones praying at one point in their lives before the idea of revolution or the seed of substances took root in them. I was reminded of lazing around at my naani’s place, doing the same but as a 14 year old girl with skin too dark and thoughts too self-damaging; post lunch winter sun on terrace with a book in my hands, the prayer call coming from a nearer place.

As I sat by the window yesterday, the neem tree outside rustled, as if shaking up old memories inside of me. A seed planted years ago in me had grown into something but I could not give it a name yet. It unsettles me, but it makes me want to live long enough to see something unfold in this world, to be a part of it.

Today when I doodled M’s name near the lines that reminded me of him, I married that moment with yesterday’s feelings, and I allowed myself this lie. FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES.

Everything I do in my life is research. I came here, in this world, lost. Now I am searching for it all again. Proust undone and then left to his own devices. I give myself two months to finish In Search Of Lost Time Vol. I, punctuated with at least 15 other books. I will make it worth my time.

My windowsill is lined with scented candles, on the verge of a meltdown. They are interjected with nail paints from all across the cities I have been to. I only use one of them religiously — a rich brown, matching the henna I use sometimes. M put some on my left foot, akin to my mother’s alta. I have never seen henna stain so dark on me. I like to touch the clumsy brown outline of my foot and think of him. I get mean and then I get bad and then I punish myself. The other person hears nothing about it. How long will I live like this — bearing the burden of entire relationships that are supposed to be shared between two people? Why am I in love with my friends but THEY DON’T SEEM TO LOVE ME BACK! Stop finding me cool or funny or amusing, love me love me love me.

I had promised myself I would not let myself get this way. I was also convinced this city doesn’t have a winter season. I will draw the blanket closer until the songs on my phone get muffled but still manage to cradle me to sleep.

ode to 1 of my favourite books

ok tata see u

love, heera