He lives in the hollow above my abdomen. When he rises, he rises through my chest, mulish-ly. Convoluting. Conclusive. Clutching onto things, rising, rising. The only thing I know about him is his weight, he is as heavy as Papa’s car. He is made of sadness. Weight so heavy, it feels like depth. The sadness, as deep as the well my aunt feel into when she was a child. I am helpless against him. Like when someone touches you without your consent. You yell, and not just out of physical pain. But he continues. You eventually cry and plead. Nothing. When he stops, you can still feel his touch on you. And the weight.
He probably wants something of me. We try to communicate. In vain. He is like the man I tried to talk to in Varanasi. I told him I was thankful for the beauty of the moment. He replied, “from Japan”. I am desperate. I need to understand what he wants. For me to give it to him so he can release me from his clutches. But he doesn’t and I cry. Under trees, near dumpsters, in P’s lap, in R’s shirt. I breathe through my clutched heavy windpipe. The only way I will be able to make him disappear is by disappearing myself, he intends.
I count in my brain, all odd numbers from 100 backward. I block thought. I call kaka so he can put M to sleep. He tells me to do my best and not mourn what cannot be changed. So I count even numbers, backward. I rebelliously do routine things. I got out of bed. I will drink water in 7 minutes, bathe in 15 and post my Kolkata postcard in 60. I will put a fight, and stare at patterns on the sofa and on teeshirts, solely because I don’t know how to stop existing.