Apart from a book to read, a diary to write, and one to make lists in, I also in my bag carry a green stapler and a green pen that opens to be a pair of scissors. I carry period cramp medicines, some for cold and fever. A big tampon. A small one. A toothbrush, a nail cutter, perfume, and some talcum powder. “Your bag looks so heavy. Why do you carry that much around? Actually, what do you even carry?” I carry red, pink, blue, orange, brown, black Staedtler pens. I don’t carry the purple one. I carry some tea bags. My checkbook since demonetization and kajal. Of course kajal and peach lip balm. I also carry a pink sock for when I am Cast Away on an island without a football for a friend.
You must always prepare for the island. Take counsel from me; I spend my nights stranded on islands of borrowed beds. Of friends. Of families I adopted. Anyone who will keep me from spending a night in my bed alone. Whether I am alone or if the bed has come to stand for loneliness, I can almost not tell. Loneliness. Or the memory of it. From another time when little Prachi locked herself in a room and cried. Alone enough to not have cried to anyone.
This is adult Prachi puts memories in words with hope that realisations will stick. To beat into her head, in words, the distinction between ‘being on my own’ and ‘being lonely’. The difference in them of helplessness. Of choice. Sorry, the idea of it. Next time you decide to sleep in your bed ‘on your own’, know this dear Prachi. Keep Breathing.