Edited by: Fiza Mishra
You don’t even know what makes you open your eyes.
It can’t be the sun because you have not raised the blinds for two weeks. It can’t be the alarm clock because that never wakes you up.
Maybe something is sitting on your chest– or in your chest. On your mind, or in your mind… What woke you up?
You realize someone is twisting the door handle– the cold metal handle that opens the door to your room.
You realize you only have a slip-on.
You pull the blanket up further. You go back to sleep.
***
You’re getting ready for class.
A lecture session at 11:50 am or was it a discussion session at 10:40 am? Really, the best thing about not owning a wristwatch is losing all sense of time.
You smell like a flower bouquet – the cream, the face wash, the body wash, and other things you use routinely. It’s like an industry assembly line. You line up the bottles and there is a rhythmic click-clack of opening and shutting them.
You remember to put on earrings today.
You jab the flesh of your left ear lobe. The metal pin can’t find the hole – or rather you can’t find the hole. That’s how every “that’s what she said” joke starts.
You snort. You’re still playing a macabre game of “find the hole in the ear lobe”. The metal pin surprisingly doesn’t make your skin bleed, just leaves it red.
***
You’re eating the first meal of your day, after two classes. It’s annoying.
Wearing long sleeves in winter is annoying. They’re fabric tunnels that encircle your arms, hindering your mobility. They cuff around your palms. You cannot flex your fingers open.
You fidget the entire time you eat. You cannot get food stains on your sleeves.
You don’t know how the dal tastes. You just know it’s a yellow that never comes out of your clothes.
You don’t know how the bhindi tastes. You just know it leaves behind a funky smell in your clothes.
You don’t know how the gulab jamun tastes. You just know that it’s sticky, immensely hydrophobic, and a difficult stain to get rid of.
The only good thing about the uncooked rice is that it leaves behind nothing – no taste in your mouth and no stain on your clothes.
***
You’re in class. You’re staring at the little dot on the projector. It’s an alarming red.
Something is going on. The whiteboard is flickering with colors. Lines scrawl across the bottom of the whiteboard. You’re still staring at the projector.
The circle classroom setups are the worst. You cannot look at your classmates– some with unbrushed hair and some with hairspray-laden updos.
You think all of them are human. They appear to be so.
They have four limbs. Their chest moves up and down, so you assume they are breathing. You assume a lot these days.
You’re still staring at the projector. The whiteboard squeals as the felt tip of a marker writes on it.
Are whiteboards alive as well?
***
She’s talking to you about something. You don’t know what.
All you can think about is that she’s Ashoka’s next emo kid. The white lights of Fuel Zone make her skin look like shit.
She’s wearing black. You think it’s because she hasn’t done the laundry. Again.
She doesn’t eat a lot of the time. She forgets to brush her hair. She just chugs coffee to breathe.
You think all of them are human. They appear to be so.
They have four limbs. Their chest moves up and down, so you assume they are breathing. You assume a lot these days.
You’re still staring at the projector. The whiteboard squeals as the felt tip of a marker writes on it.
Are whiteboards alive as well?
***
You’re sitting on the mess lawns. You like sitting there. Everyone has secrets they let lose while the sun illuminates their skin. The golden hour is the gossip hour.
There are groups– twos, threes, tens. You’re leaning against a tree. It’s scrawny enough that it bends slightly. You wonder if you’ll have to pay a fine for damaging institutional property.
The people are moving, or well, their faces are moving. Some mouths gape wide open.
Some eyes blink and shut too rapidly. Hair is flicked, tugged, and tied up.
Teeth are bared, shoulders are slapped.
One pair is lying on top of each other – you do not know if they are two people or the same person.
The leaves tilt, from left to right. It’s heavy and the sun is setting.
Why does the sun never screech in protest as it is lowered down to the ground?
***
She’s talking to you about something. You don’t know what.
All you can think about is that she’s Ashoka’s next emo kid. The white lights of Fuel Zone make her skin look like shit.
She’s wearing black. You think it’s because she hasn’t done the laundry. Again.
She doesn’t eat a lot of the time. She forgets to brush her hair. She just chugs coffee to breathe.
You realize you’re staring at your reflection.
***
You don’t know if the day has ended – you’re probably missing a 9:00 pm club meeting. Yet, you’re back in bed.
There’s a rhythmic thudding. Someone is getting fucked gloriously.
You start counting from one. You’re surprised that you remember numbers. You thought you had forgotten them.
It seems like the comforter is the grey slab that closes the tomb of someone made eternal in marble. You don’t understand that thought. You’re nearing two thousand.
You think. The thudding is matching the pace of your counting.
One, two, three, four… wait were you not at two thousand?
Who cares about the thudding?
Who cares, when it’s always there right below your jaw, in your veins, and in your heart?