It’s 5:00 AM, your body is paralysed, well- atleast for now. Your breathing is timed, rhythmic, yours. Your hands are free, your palmlines now darker than ever. The sunlight feels sacred, 1, 2, 3, inhale. Your eyes- closed, heavy, drowsy, closed, your legs- one a little warmer than the other, 4, 5, 6, exhale. It’s 5:00 AM, you were not supposed to be asleep this way. It’s 5:00 AM, you were not supposed to breathe this way. It’s 5:00 AM, you were not supposed to be in this bed. It’s 5:00 AM. It’s 5:00 AM, it’s 5:00 AM. Your room is not closed. Your TV is not off. Your laptop is supposed to be dead. Your skin is supposed to be wrinkled- MORE wrinkled. It’s 5:00 AM. 1, 2, 3 inhale, 3, 4, 5 exhale. You’re breathing. You’re breathing. You’re breathing. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. It’s 5:00 AM.
"Peeeeeeeeeep!"
My alarm goes off. That big, blue metal piece. Every morning it cries out harder than any fine lad’s mistress. Starts from 12 and ends at 12. Every morning, it cries. I don’t like being woken up this way, never did, but when one is able to afford an apartment at 21, an alarm feels like a necessity, like a belonging that shoots me out of my nest – my bed. My floor, infested by rot of some kind, it creeks, and when it rains, well – let’s just say my floor’s residents have some survival instincts. Every morning, that alarm goes off, I open my eyes- closed, heavy, drowsy, I look around, I see a cobweb, no spiders, just the cobweb, the broomstick’s right below it, I don’t really care enough to use it. It’s a commodity, not an essential. I open my eyes, walk past the web, look into the mirror, and feel pity for my hair, standing out as if they’re ready to entertain the 3 Fs. Matted hair, dry lips, empty stomach with occasional heartburns. Each morning, that stupid alarm goes off.
My breakfast, well, I’ve to buy it. The tap drips water, one, two, three, dip- dip- dip-, scattered on the sink like raindrops on one’s hair, 1 drop here, the other right next to it, retracing itself, one step after the other, while that one drop just stays there, unwilling to move, just experiencing being. My bowl sits at the table, blue- cyan, upside down, the spoon, well, last night it was right under the cupboards, on that shadowed kitchen slab, white, dusty, a bit brown because of it. The dish soap, eh, it’s under the sink. I’ve to buy my breakfast. I’ve to buy my breakfast and turn the tap off. My clock reads – 5:40 AM.
The sky is blue, a little white, well, the clouds are there, scattered. This one koel, with an awkward brown body, the beak, woody, lifeless, black, sharp, some lines here and there, it sits. It sits, and just gawks. God I hate that bird. The blue sky is outside, so is the bird, one of the scattered clouds is almost coming near my face PRRRRRRRRNG! The doorbell rings. Once, twice, thrice. I look towards my mite infested door with my eyes, now somehow a little red and watery, i register that doorbell, it’s sharp, it’s high-pitched- one of the reasons I regret affording things. I walk closer and closer to that door. That door needs stronger bricks, I bought a damn house- I spent money- what for? Knock, knock, knock, 1, 2, 3, short, sturdy, loud but restrained knocks. I follow rhythmically, one step forward- one knock, the other step forward, another knock, a leap forward when the doorbell rings. It’s 5:59 AM, the sky is a little less blue, that darn cuckoo has gathered enough for here nest, one, two, three, 1 knock, 2 knocks, 3 knocks, the dish soap is yellow, it’s supposed to be like that, the label is kind of scratched. I did not turn my alarm off. The TV is still on. The house is not quiet. I reach for the doorhandle. That cold, round steel. I open the door. No more knocks, no more rhythmic steps, no more doorbell rings. I open the door.
In front of me stands a man, wearing a white kurta, black shoes, holding a black cigar, 1 puff he takes, then another, then another, I breathe accordingly. As I breathe into the tension created by the column of air between us, and the smoke he created, I look at him up and down, wrinkled clothes, even more wrinkled hands, torn shoes, his face – arched eyebrows, a faint smile, sharp eyes. He smiles at me, suddenly, I’m able to feel my sweat, the tingle created by my matted hair, I don’t want to breathe this way, inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale. The name plate reads: Jyotika Talvar. It’s brown, woody, dusty. It’s supposed to be cleaned. I feel myself heaving, my fingers are clutching to my clothes, my hair doesn’t feel matted anymore, the TV noise has been drowned out. I am Jyotika Talvar, 21, I am here. There is a tall man standing in front of me, he is not smoking anymore. The smoke is still there. It’s not supposed to be like that.
I step inside, further and further, I’m not being cornered by a stanger’s antics, I’m willingly letting him in. I want to. I can. He steps in, god his shows are loud, tap-tap-tap-tap- he stands and puts his hands on both of my shoulders. Leans into my ears and asks “What happens next?” I could’ve brushed that name plate. I could’ve. I spent money on this apartment. He taps my shoulders. “Jyotika Talvar. I’m asking you, what. happens. next?”, “Next? When is next?” I ask, looking deep into his eyes, now his lips, carefully noticing each crease. “1 second after this moment, then a second after that, then a second after that, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 seconds have now passed. My previously asked version of next has been corroded. I ask again, with more precision and some room to think this time. Jyotika Talvar, what happens after 660 seconds? What happens next?”, I step closer to him, a little more, a little more, I touch his white kurta, I breathe his presence in, I close my eyes, he doesn’t budge. I hold him closer, I put my hands on his back and I pull him in, deeper and deeper as he breathes into my lifeless clothes. I open my palms, spread out my fingers, hold him closer, he now holds me. A chill runs through me – first my feet, then my heart that takes 2 extra beats. I put my face in the crook of his neck, he doesn’t budge, I doesn’t hold me much tighter than how he’s already holding me. I close my eyes, I let my hands run through his back, I trace every bone, I breathe out every time he breathes in. I touch his hair, it’s soft, it’s his. My eyes are closed. I’m breathing a little faster now. I want to. I can. I have to. I clutch his kurta, I breathe through my mouth, let him know that this moment is meant for intimacy. He holds me tighter than ever, I run my hands through his neck- feel his skin. I need to. I have to. I want to. He clutches my hair, gently. We stay like that for a while. My eyes are closed. I am at rest. He knows it. I pull away, still holding him by the waist. My face is traceless. frownless. numb. I know what skin feels like. What intimacy should be. I look at him for some time, I come closer to his face and put my lips on his cheeks. I don’t kiss them, I just put them there, he leans into it. I move my lips across his face, not pulling away, not kissing him. It feels necessary. He lets me. I come near his lips, I think for some seconds, I put my lips to his. As they lay there, he takes a deep breath, doesn’t touch me, I pull away my hands but my lips are still there, and my eyes are closed now. This is what dryness is. As soon as he picks up his hands to clutch me, I let go. I stand again, now a bit further. Both of us, breathing normally. Rhythmically. It’s 6:09 AM.
He asks again, “What happens next?” I gasp, sigh, clutch my own clothes, hands stretching a little to feel my veins. They’re not pulsating. I’m running out of time. The seconds hand is running, faster and faster it goes. The air is chilling, indelicate, vile, divine, still. Why is he just standing? I’ve got chairs, I can afford them, a few steps and he’s there- “It’s 6:10 AM, don’t contradict the shape of your own silhouette. You can count. You can see the change. You can perceive. Grant me your third eye. Entitle this very moment. It’s 6:10 AM. What happens at 6:10 AM? What happened at 5:00 AM? At 5:30? Why didn’t you realise it’s 6:10 AM? Where are you supposed to be? What happens next?” I know what happens when time methodically disputes with the mind’s perception. I’ve looked it up. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, I remember the alarm clock, I know what happened at 5:30 AM, I remember what my bed’s creases felt like, how could I forget? They’ve hidden in themselves my intimacy and bankruptcy. This is my narrative. There was a cuckoo, she wanted to build a nest. I came near him, I touched him, I replicated his pulses, his pulsating, coloured veins. Is this enough? Have I remembered enough? I’m Jyotika Talvar. The name plate needs to be cleaned. I see it everytime. This time will be up. Every morning my alarm rings. I am exposed right now. I am exposed right now. I am exposed right now. I will be dismantled. I will be dismantled. I will be dismantled. I need to grow old. It’s 6:30 AM. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. He comes near me. Still, unfazed. He takes his hand out, gently, intently, caresses my left cheek. My left cheek. “What happens next?”. There’s a pause. “Next, next I look into the mirror and let it turn into shards and seep into me. It’s a torrid pamphlet of the evidence of life. It’s intimate. It’s mine. I need it to make my skin crawl. I’m here. This moment is mine. It’s not disillusionment. That’s one less thing to fret for. Then I go to my bathtub. It’s 6:40 by then. I come out, I wear my robe. Just my robe, nothing more, nothing under. I wear my robe. I stare out the window. I need to go. I need to run. There are more clouds than I remembered. This is not how it’s supposed to be. This is not a mess. This is just not how it’s supposed to be. I want you. I want you. I want you. It’s 6:40 AM. I am late. This is disillusionment. I can go. I need to go. You’re not what happens next.” He smiles. Everything goes dark. Not eerie, just dark. It’s eternal, inevitable, pious. Everything goes dark.
“Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!” the alarm goes off.
There’s a knock at the door. I open it. “Delivery for Dr. Jyotika Talvar.” A man speaks aloud. I receive the parcel. There’s a box that looks a little too pale under the sunlight. I open the box. It’s brown, a little beaten down, but it’s still a box, holding something inside. There’s a little packet of pearls and a letter, a note. “You had a miscarriage. You’re not pregnant, Jyotika. Yesterday around 5:00 AM, you had a miscarriage. Please stick this to your wall. Call me if you need. You’re not just staff, you’re a task force. I need you to break out of this illusion. Around 5:00 AM, you had a miscarriage, Jyotika. Read this for as long as you want, but please stop knocking your doors, stop calling out names. You’re here. You can’t be this exposed. You can’t terminate trauma, your body can hold life, Jyotika. It didn’t slip away. It did not vanish. You can harbour souls. Don’t let the disinterest of this loss warp you into a lifeless prayer.
Love,
Dr. Suhani Srivastava”
My hands clutch that white page. I don’t cry. My eyes don’t well. I sigh. I am breathless. I look outside- the name plate is clean. My floor, well, nothing rotting here. I paste the page on the inner side of my door. It’s 6:50 AM. I’ve to go get breakfast. I am not exposed now. No rhythms for now. It’s 6:53 AM. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. 1, 2, 3, inhale- 4, 5, 6, exhale. I’m not in the mountains. The TV is off. Both of my legs are equally warm. I am breathing. I’m not in the mountains.
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