trigger warning, i guess. they come in bulk packs, so i can lend you one for now.
looking around here, in this place im just another person who cries to jazz, watching the boys smoke up. but somehow, im the only one not really here, constantly fantasizing about not being here, or anywhere else.
its not the pain from the cuts that makes me cry, its when it feels good a minute later, as skin breaks and moves and just for a few moments, theres no screaming.
You told me to fuck off, so I came here.
Two weeks ago I flipped a coin. Today it came out heads.
Maybe this is the hard part.
My hair is falling. Pulling the strands and coiling them around my finger in the shower, I think that if I wash my hair long enough this afternoon I won’t have any left.
By the fifth seven minute, I’ve had enough. There’s only so many times I can go up against anyone and lose in a day.
Tonight I carve a six into my thigh and hope it won’t happen again on a paper handed to me.
You’re lonely in the hills, you say. That when people from the lowlands call, you cry and cry and can’t stop.
There’s an emptiness in the chat that means you expect me to say something.
You cry all the time, you type.
So I ask, “from the loneliness?”
I always knew studying in the best law school in the country would be hard, I always knew I would cut everyday. I had the luxury of knowing this, it is a privilege.
If lawyers could sit in the hills like scientists, I wouldn’t cry at night.
I cry for wanting to be lonely.
Today you said we can’t help each other anymore, that there is no point of us.
Today, I say there will be one tomorrow.
You tell me to fuck off.
Ritwik was bronzed in the afternoon light, before the tube lights blinked on and pulled a blue evening behind the windows.
If I had my pastels I would draw him, who I would never be.
They forgot me again.
I retreat into my cave in these hills and forget that I actually do exist. Here in these walls my body is yet another thing that I’ve invented for myself, that my conversations with those who’ll have one are just simulations inside my head.
You can never know, with the constant clanging.
I cannot be sure of any merit I have because I alone didn’t have to prove it to be here, I cannot think of anything else but the walls of the academic block screaming at me, that I don’t deserve this, that I shouldn’t breathe unless I earn it, that I should not speak until I am allowed by those better than me.
I do not know what I am doing here, what I am working towards, why I walk into this class of the country’s sixty smartest of my age and still want to try, even if I finally don’t. (Its that my father has already paid so much-)
I cannot speak.
After four rounds of lost debates, I forget how.
I muster the courage to ask a question, and suddenly I can think of nothing but fog. Words come in broken spurts.
I fear being one of those we hear about, those pitiful names who leave this place because it was simply too hard. I hate them, and I grow sick to think that I might be one of them.
My father says its only been a month, that I don’t have to do well – just pass. That they have my back and they’ll support me – but my mother’s eyes are more tired with each time she video calls, and I see bruises behind a pixilated screen.
“Don’t come back,” she says, “there’s nothing left here.”
I study and read and work, yet the class has answers that I do not, I don’t think what we need to. I cannot understand the words, I cannot recognise the sounds.
dontspeakyoudontdeservetobreathe
LnD took me this year, but they won’t next year.
I wonder if they’ve figured out I am excellent at pretending to be better than I am. They’re some of the very smartest here, among the smartest. Surely, they have.
Each time I’ve spoken in committee, I was proved wrong.
I like to think it’s not that I’m not trying.
Its just something I can’t convince myself of.
LnD sent two teams and both won the debate tournament. Grabbed best, speaker too.
I am scared that if I start to get real, I’ll find out that I am not.
(Annyeong, he said last October, and soon it will be October again.
All he has left is his voice to drown out mine and his long lidded eyes on sheets of drawing paper.)
This is a question of who I want to be.
(but I can’t tell the six people advising me that)
I want to be something more, and for once, the people I idolize are asking for me.
They sent three people, and the other side sent me a line written in gold for a CV.
This is about who I want to be, but for the rest of the world it’s sheer stupidity.
The boy from the slums told us to just do what we want, and we’ll get to the top, like he did in his penthouse in London.
Flip a coin.
(Are you scared of which side will face up?)
LnD.
Maybe I’ll come to regret not having a golden line on the CV, one that’ll bring me a job.
But is it my place to decide as a 17yr old what is more important – loving myself or my future?
What audacity can one have at 17 to make a choice like that.
What insolence can I have to choose the thing I love?
The coin falls. It falls on the same stone slabs as it did two years ago.
Last time, it set my sights here, to these halls where I must make the decision.
StudAd.
I have a golden line on my CV, but I’m no different.
I am still not the person I came here to be, but what I came here to do is set in stone.
I chose returns over happiness.
I’m the person I came here to be, but I regret not being the person I want to be.
But I can hate myself and blame it on something bigger, something that’s not me – something that’ll give me 3 lakhs a month, but I will regret.
Maybe the regret will be worth it.
Maybe insolence is when I choose to do what I love on my father’s money.
I will hate myself anyway.
The coin shows me a heart.
it doesnt help
it doesnt help at all
im not changing in the way i want to or doing the things i want to do
but now all i can do is this and i cant stop
no, you dont understand…its the only thing I CAN do
my eyes burn and i imagine red lines
It rains here, and when it doesn’t it threatens to.
Throwing away Old Things, I find your letter signed ‘You Know Who’. You apologize in two pages and full lines of ‘sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry’, that you missed me now that I was not there and all my boring talk of the one thing I loved.
In the last line you tell me not to tell Aditi, and somehow it has been raining for seven years because now I still have apologies and promises whispered into my ear, hiding, hiding, hiding away from Aditi.
You are no longer here and there are others, there are more of you taking and folding sorrys into envelopes, but Aditi is still here.
In the rain hitting the earth I couldn’t hear the voice in my head change to the voice of her, but now Aditi is going to Berkley and a ghost of her sits here – here open this flap behind my ear and you will find it.
The rain has stopped so I fold the creased sheet another time and leave it next to the bushes. Maybe someone will find it and take it.
They might even read it, but there’s no harm in it. There are no names but of the thing I loved, not of you who so loved me and not of me, who had forgotten loving you.
There are things more important than a silly sadness that comes at night. Things more real than this.
Men cut through mountains and men move them. My aunt drives on the roads in Sikkim and my uncle here next to me says the mountains are soft and its cliffs will give way.
Men and Woman are real, so they talk at dawn how they will change the world.
My feet walks but I am not here.
I try weakly to collect these scrambled thoughts and memories, but I find nothing but the cold sun rising. I remind myself I am in Bangalore, that Sikkim is someplace else.
This once, we travel south.
The hills will fall, he says. The hills will fall when the seismic plates shift and no man can stop the earth from raining.
The dust spells out a language, but I do not understand it.
So none of us speak.
It is too quiet here.
The cold sun makes for cold walls at six-thirty, when you can only hear the rustling of the avocado tree and father’s footsteps drawing a picture for what he will be today.
The rain from last night comes from the metal tap and makes a loud splatter in the sink. The iron pipes are rusting and the ceiling is high. The houses here are old in Cook Town, the trees are even older and only the first of the many have started to die.
We don’t know how it will fall so my uncle parks the car further down the road.
There’s a red cut on my palm from two days after that. Only the jutting stone slabs on Davis road saw me fall, so I turn it into a party joke –
“ and I heard the perplexed auto driver gasp as I went down-”
Only Davis road saw me fall in the rain before I could panic.
I see the cut on my palm and red skin at the Investiture Ceremony, hidden to all who do not want to see, and think it is better than having cried. The small gash hurts and numbs too much with pain to want more, so I forgive myself for not pressing it. No leader with the badge I wear cries in these streets.
(No leader forgets the two streets he was to cross. No leader forgets the right turn onto Hutchins road. No leader forgets where he was. No leader forgets he was ever walking.
But they don’t need to know that I did.
In the wetness I could see everything-)
