Woven Dimensions- Aditi Singh by aditi.singh

WOVEN DIMENSIONS Aditi Singh

All pieces of writing, illustrations and images are by Aditi Singh. A Publication of the Creative Writing Department of the Srishti Institute of Art, Design and Technology, Bangalore. 2019

The Creative Writing Program at the Srishti Institute of Art, Design and Technology is a unique space that nurtures emerging creativity and encourages students to cultivate their ability to create compelling and artful literary work. Combining creative exploration, artistic rigour, technical execution and cultural context, the program equips students to channelize their creative passion and develop the essential skills to articulate their vision and engage in imaginative and meaningful expression. Within the program, the students are introduced to diverse and emerging forms of writing, publishing, and marketing so that they have a better understanding of the language and the contexts within which their work needs to be placed. Through different courses under the creative writing program, students can explore a range of genres from fiction, poetry, and screenwriting to creative non-fiction and science writing. All Rights Reserved Copyright ÂŠ2019 by the Srishti Institute of Art, Design and Technology Creative Writing Program. All rights reserved. No copies may be made without the written permission of the publisher.

contents 1. otherworld 2. crippleflourish 3. the wind of time 4. poker face 5. reflective practices 6. cloud nine 7. @thegr8walloncrack 8. @mattressmatters 9. @beleafinme 10. the end of an era: crack in a wall 11. heaven on earth, now back home: mattress 12. a toast to adventures in heaven: leaf 13. in(terr)i(or) 14. gezellig

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O T H E R W O R L D .

Monsoon.

The rain over here always has a story to tell. Unlike in London where the periodic, unspectacular showers are subject to much chagrin from citizens, rain over here is greeted with gratitude, with affection. Songs of potential harvest, folklore speaking of prosperity, riches and Gods… Through the cacophony of daily, mundane life comes the music of petrichor, the poems of lightning, the beats of thunder and the melody of rain. The rain over here is my favourite. The incense of Indian air caresses my frigid cheekbones and I am at once reminded of Bimal’s lingering gaze. My gentle Bimal, with his cool fingertips calming the traumatised, tortured terrain of my face. He is my Chaukidaar*, here in Madras. His light brown hair blew onto his eyes as he lugged his suitcase to match the pace of stride, panting out “Windsor Manor kahaan hai?”*, and the locals reciprocated with leers of native tongue. Divide and Rule, my Commander would say. However, I stepped in, held the door open for him, unbeknownst of the fact that he would be doing the same for me starting the very next day. The years I served for the Raj brought me accolades, yes, but it had erased that primal clause of humanity- “Humans are Social Beings”- from within me. The air was rife with general dissent, salty, trying to prove Gandhi’s point. The Indian people would stare at me in distaste and while I felt pride in striking fear of authority on them, I often reminisce Bimal’s words. “Yes, you are British. Yes, you are an army man. Yet, you are so much more than that, my life, don’t you see? Strong-willed, compassionate, gentle. Don’t let the oppressor define the man that you are.” Bimal is learned, well beyond his years. He articulates what he knows and feels with the maturity that is hard to find in people my age. His 20 to my 35, balanced out by his enthusiasm and my quiet, his inquisitiveness and my wisdom, his love and mine too. As raindrops cling to the thatched roofs of sheds on the damp, red mud road, I think of how I grasp onto Bimal’s fanning breath on my nape, onto his playful, glinting eyes, onto saccharine promises dripping off his tongue. Bimal wrings his hands together the first time he collects the weekly telegrams of Windsor Manor residents and instead of delivering them straight to their respective recipients, reads them out word for word to me. “Oh my God”, he gasps, “oh my God this isn’t right!” His hands are red with the amount of blood he has pulled and tugged and scratched into them, “Why are we doing this?” I breathe in, a single long sigh, “My love, I know you think it is wrong and I know you despise it when I go back to behaving like an officer, but we need this information. Two men engaging in a relationship like ours will be beaten to death in prison, my love, and that is the law. We can’t fight it, so let us ensure that we never encounter it. The residents of Windsor Manor have seen the way regard each other and I am wary about us being reported to the police. So, what do we do? We blackmail them. Do you understand, my

love?” Bimal breaks from the trance of deep, heavy, petrified realisation. We are forbidden. “Okay, I understand. Okay”, he gulps down his inhibitions, and they are gone. She has seen him around, Adonis. He worked with the authorities for a while in this little village before deciding that the tortures he had seen on battlefields in addition to the bungling of bureaucracy in the police thaanas* would be rightly compensated for by a restful retirement funded by his dead uncle’s estate. His grey-green eyes that shone through his spectacles, his scarred hands that spoke of brute strength, his voice and tongue curling over the tenets of Socrates’s teachings. Oh, how sublime was he! But, she sees them, the Bachelor and his panzy. She sees them through her mind’s eye, perusing through the neighbours’ telegram messages for blackmail. “Look!”, exclaims Panzy, his doltish, dull eyes scrambling for purchase on any sort of approval Adonis could possibly give. “Mrs. Wharton’s husband is bujjering that labourer whore!” “Oh love, what have I taught you?”, he laughs at Pansy, endeared, “its buggering, love, buggering.” They are intimate with each other with a confidence that should not be allowed by their kind, she thinks. Panzy spies on the residents’ telegrams for potential blackmail before delivering them- that rat, she thinks. Her inky, onyx eyes turn murky, blurring her vision in tints and shades of grey. Her trembling hands reach for the vial full of spotted green pills. Panzy will pay his price for stealing what’s her truth, like he does with those telegrams, she thinks. In public, of course, I cannot even acknowledge Bimal’s existence. He opens and shuts the Manor’s doors. Preposterous, a relationship between us would be. At times, I feel as though a sinister source is draining me when I am with him, but I choose to ignore it in favour of the fruitfulness of his companionship. Yet, I find ways to let him know of my desires, a military trait of learning and unlearning secret codes within the flash of a second. One tap of my sleek brown walking stick as I hobble out of the door is ‘Your cabin, midnight’; two, and my intent is ‘Not today, love’. He clears his throat discreetly in confirmation and for a brief moment I wonder whether Bimal would make a good intelligence agent. He would, I concede, my spying little vixen. Bimal informs me with panic glazing his eyes, “I have to go to my gaaon*, Maa is very sick”. I coax the moisture of his eyes to evaporate from his water line with the same thumbs that have pulled triggers of guns weighing greater than my lover and stabbed knives into enemies without any guidance from Moral Compass; I kiss him goodbye with the same mouth that pulled pins off grenades and barked orders out to soldiers whom I successfully predicted to perish; I am an utterly endeared man for Bimal. I give him some money, I wish for his speedy return. “In a month, my life”, exhales he, my world, “in a month I am back in your arms. The Banyan tree’s new roots will have just touched mother earth, and I am back to watch them strengthen with you.” I promise to telegram him, wanting to make full use of a novel technology that allows 2

me to speedily connect with my lover no matter where he is. He readily agrees to do the same. He writes Panzy multiple telegrams a day, obsessive just like her. She obsesses over the contrast of his new found Indian tan with the crisp starchy white of his shirt; obsesses over the rim of his spectacles being further pronounced by the arch of his left eyebrow when annoyed; obsesses over how much he is in love with her and not Panzy, because that is her truth, her right. She swallows spotted green pills, thick in her gullet. “Good day, Madam”, Adonis, non-commital. “Please take down this telegram for an acquaintance”, Adonis, eager. His mouth circles around vowels she pays no heed to, his trimmed, golden moustache jumping and twitching in movement. In his presence, she is always amused, always enchanted. Her knees knock together in excitement as he speaks to her. Oh, his voice. The rich lustre of his tone, and all for her to witness! All for her to enjoy. Truly, Adonis was a romantic, the kind of marvel she would read in all those books. “The cycle of the Sun is what continues to make us one, Poetry is not the art for which I was patron But am now, for in your presence I am forever, a subject”, Adonis, enchanted. His eyebrow arches at the end of his sentence and she scrambles, snapped out of a trance. “Yes of course”, turn the wheels in her head. “The cycle of the Sun is once again, done I have no sweet words to shield you, lowly brown peasant You are gone, now never return” “All done!”, creeps the simper onto her face, parasite of perversion, “that will be 2 annas*, Sir” “G’day”, Adonis tipping his head in courteous inclination. What a charmer, she thinks. My charmer, she knows. Bimal’s jar of soap chippings was subject to mild torture by me (funny how I can use the very same word that turned me into a ruthless monster in the very same breath with which I reminisce my lover’s body) as I search for the aroma he likes best on meJasmine. Sweet-smelling, I fix my coat and hat, hand curling familiarly on the smooth knob of my trusty walking stick. I open the Manor’s door to exit, probably spending a moment too long relishing in the muscle memory of Bimal’s presence as I see neighbours stare at me in distaste. I clear my throat, left eyebrow arching on instinct and their eyes clear in realisation. They are all but timid sheep under our force. The humidity clings onto my back and I am trapped in my English garb, unable to do anything as women use their Saris and men their pieces of muslin cloth to pat away perspiration. Despite the discomfort, I make my way towards the post office. 3

The post office is a shack, made of stone and mud, with plants and creepers poking out of crevices in greeting. Quaint, earthen, Indian with its thatched straw roof. Wary of any passing bullock-carts, whose owners are of the same feisty disposition as the animals itself, I tread with precision that has been ingrained in me through years of gruelling training- straight down the raw brown path of the Manor, turning right from the cobblestoned footpath; bypassing the statue of Gandhi (the public figure is in jail yet again, in compensation we presented his figure to the public to appear concerned). Strangely, I see wrought iron rods littering the path to the post office. Strange, because the post office is another meagre shack with a thatched hay roof. I reach in time for the suspiciously pale post-girl to deliver me my beloved’s message. My ragged hands glide through the textured piece of parchment, my lover’s open visage with so much to express. I breath in the scent of musk and monsoon, Bimal’s undertone of damp earth. I flip open the parchment, beholding his words “Why my life Why turn on me at moment like this I long for you but it seems to insult you” The telegram runs through my head with the speed of an acerbic bullet. What? What is the meaning of all this? “Excuse me”, it comes out gruff, strained, “You have delivered me the wrong telegram.” “Bimal Singh to Jonathan Taylor, is it not?”, the post-girl’s voice takes on this disconcerting quality of roughness and timber, downward inflections piercing each consonant together until it is all but a growl. “That is quite right…”, confusion, hurt, disappointment. I need to clear my head, I need to leave. Walking back to the Manor I spot a strange tree littered with deep, sinewy holes- gasping for air as if it had let out millions of heavy, burdening secrets, melting as though a hot cauldron of lava was poured onto it as punishment; frozen in time. A shiver wracks up my spine, goosebumps prickling in altertness and alarm. She has quite the force, this lady of time and origin unknown, and they circle around Panzy like lecherous vultures. He can’t see them, of course, as he treks back to his mother’s house after dishearteningly delivering his telegram to the post office. He feels a weight begin to descend on him, crushing his upright stance into surrendered stupor. He knew it was too good to be true, his love with the Angrez*. After all, what kind of relationship is underpinned by secrecy and spying; by caution, by blackmail. The force is stuck to him, and they know for exactly how much longer. I can see her following me, her shadow almost weightless, but her energy imminent; dark, clawing, draining. My visits to the post office are very regular, anxiousness undulating in waves matching in strength with the Indian Ocean. Bimal is the coastline I am seemingly unable to reach. My telegrams quote Rumi, Wordsworth, Blake; our worlds coming together, and if telegrams could speak I’m sure Bimal would detect the quiver of longing in my words. “Out beyond the ideas of right-doing and wrongdoing, there is a field I will meet you there” 4

“I do not understand my life Have you given me up?” “There is a comfort in the strength of love; ‘Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart” “If that is what you regard me as You have lied to me about Love” “Love and harmony combine, And around our souls entwine While thy branches mix with mine, And our roots together join.” “Maa convulses in near death and here You kill me” I am always left astounded by his messages. The forces corner Panzy, and while he sees nor hears anything, he can feel each molecule of oxygen being pulled out laboriously from within him. The descent of his last exhale and he sees her. A flash of grey pallor against the moonlit fields of golden wheat, bowing to her as the wind commands them to cower. Inhale, hoping to screamHe sees his lover sacrificed under the Banyan tree. Ultimately, she is a slave. When the shocks run through her being, firing up her spine, all she can do is conduct. Panzy is livid. He is sorrowful; tempestuous unmeasurable by the Richter scale. Panzy is dead on his own, but alive through her. She is stock straight, her right arm jutting out perpendicularly. Her eyes are glassy, viscous, grey, and her vision is pinned on the wall. Her hand loses any semblance of control and the smooth, rotund body of her pen lands on parchment with a vengeance. Her lips and fingers twitch, head suddenly twisting maniacally as the parchment is consumed by characters of another being, the words of another soul. The scratching of metallic nib on parchment leaves behind tributaries of free flowing emotion from a scorned lover. With a decisive dot, the pen falls in exhausted resignation. As if strings holding her have been cut, she sags forcefully on the table in front of her, the collision on her head leaving impact in the form of stark red marks on her forehead. Marionette. Bimal is gone. It has been over a month. The new roots of the Banyan tree have touched mother earth and there is no hope for reconciliation with my love because he is gone. The neighbouring Chaukidaar informed me as the dusky showers of yesterday washed away hope from my being. They found him hanging from his village’s Banyan tree about a week ago. Bimal is gone. He is gone, and yet I receive telegrams from him. 5

“Whatever you are thinking to do don’t do it” “Please heed my words my life do not act upon whims” “Broom Wrought iron Tree.” I know that she is manipulating me. It is her hand that writes these telegrams, however closely they may match my lover’s writing and parlance. I have sworn to avenge him. I grab my walking stick with purpose, intent, revenge. I follow the path towards the post office that has been branded upon my brain. Nearing the rugged shack, I see a straw broom lying limp on the thatched roof. Peculiar, I think, only for my gaze to travel downwards to soak in a massacred tree with three bars of wrought iron piercing through it, holding it together in its atrophied misery. I stop for a moment, my heartbeat matching my ragged breath. Images of recent telegrams bounce off the walls of my mind before the entire volume of it is filled with the steam of red rage. Who does she think she is trying to fool? I storm up to her, the telegrams ringing in my ears, overpowering in their urge to stop me but I shan’t. I have ordered myself to complete a mission, and my brain has been hard-wired to UNDERSTAND, PLAN, EXECUTE orders. I twist the knob of my walking stick, the globe of it fitting into my palm with practiced ease. One smooth pull reveals my rapier, ready for the reaping. It cuts the wind, it emits the slightest gasp of unease before silence; I guarantee a quick death. She lies there, on the floor. Paper thin and white, dimming in intensity as she crumbles into ash. Black tar emerges from the pile, evaporating into a rancid, putrid amalgamation of soot and oil. I inhale involuntarily. He lies there, Adonis, underneath the same Banyan tree with its new roots touching the earth. He flits in and out of consciousness as dusk climbs the ceiling of sky, crawling over it and settling for the night. Moon sees everything, but refuses to appear witness to His innards pulled apart, string for string; morbid mass. His eyes, lining glazed; pitch black from end to end. His blood, crimson and thick; feeding soil secrets of soul. The Banyan tree replenishes this way, its roots accelerating in their growth, encasing his almost-corpse in a mesh of branch and fibre. Not a sound is let out when he disappears in the Banyan’s cage. Dusk climbs down, giving room to Dawn, inquisitive of the night’s happenings. Moon testifies that nothing out of the ordinary took place. Easy to believe, the bullock-carts clamour around the roads, vendors hustle about their business and the Banyan tree’s new roots have strengthened completely. Life is at its peak of normalcy.

She sits on a branch of the Banyan, caressing its leaves languidly; she watches the routine of mortal life go by. In her translucent hands is Panzy’s last telegram. The tool of their power, the tool of their demise. It warns “My life you will be ended with no trace if you do not mark my words One tap of your walking stick I will be waiting.” Adonis apparates from the roots of the Banyan, transformed, undead but unalive. He is hers now.

*Glossary Angrez: Hindi term for the British anna: Obsolete currency equivalent to 0.0625 of a rupee Chaukidaar: Groundskeeper gaaon: Hometown, Village thaanas: (Police) Stations “Windsor Manor kahaan hai?”: “Where is Windsor Manor?”

crippleflourish I started out as that annoying voice in the back of your head, but the exterior presented to you was smooth and distracting so you tolerated me. I grew, obviously, I grew. And you tried to pretend that the elephant in the room- Ididn’t exist. You tried to cover me up, layers and layers and layers of paint. But that is not what I’m made of, you see. I was visceral in proving “I. Do. Exist”. You grew tired of me. I was seemingly taking up too much space in your head, so you decided to ignore me once and for all. You regard me with cold disposition as I see you mingling with your friends right before my eyes. It was tough, moving on. Breaking out of this shell that I thought I had made for myself, but in reality you, put me in. I am imperfect, but beautiful nonetheless. You made me feel small, and I promised myself that I would never let myself believe that even for a single second more. I have begun to conquer my wall, I have spread my wings. I span from corner to corner like the great Albatross. I am free

the wind of time I have licked the undersides of several shoes for sustenance, but I have stopped feeling like scum. I am numb. It used to scare me, how much I was dependent on mother and how I could not imagine life without her. Yes, a part of me died when she shook me off of her- I was too clingy, too adamant in my demand for affection. What parent does that to their child? But from down here, my perspectives change. I see the baby pigeon, abandoned barely a few days after hatching because its parents thought its sibling was stronger, more ambitious. I yell at it sometimes, ‘I am your friend, I am your friend!’ It doesn’t hear me. It dies. I haven’t died, although a part of me did. The same shoes I seek for nourishment move me around, I have now gained additional mobility than the rest of my family, still stuck to that miserable pot. I have an identity now, a story to tell. I am no longer just another leaf, I can travel. In that sense, I am happy to have found direction after mother kicked me out of home. I am my home.

poker face I am the upholder of a day of importance, but once a new dawn rises I am a trickster, a cheat. Intrigued faces pass me by every day, even though the day I mark has passed away a week ago. They light up in interest, in curiosity. Their eyes roll up into their heads in that excessively calculative manner- I have one submission to finish in two days, I can make it; heads whirring in excitement of finding free time to spend. So they come to the screening room to find it empty. Hastily, they look at the pixelated picture they took on their phones. Saturday, 3rd August, I say. It is Saturday, 10th August. Well, whose fault is that? I am outdated, I confess, but it is your laziness that leaves your friends perplexed and annoyed. I am redundant, I confess, but without your heed I mislead for my pleasure and my pleasure only. It is their fault too, I agree, but they can never be blamed fully. I am useless, you may think, but when you don’t bother you are essentially creating exactly that“What a bother!”, they say. They may never come for your films again. You abandoned me, but now am skilled with a powerful tool. The art of sabotage.

i’ve already seen this before ?

reflective practices I deserve this. It is what I’ve been made for in the first place, right? “Dispose immediately after use” is branded on me, and yet I feel such emptiness- both literally and in my essence of self- when the very last sip of water has been consumed. Water, that fraud. That clone that takes shape of me; unoriginal, unimaginative, onedimensional, basic, FRAUD. Human, you naïve slave to avarice. You want to bake your cake and eat it too. You are extravagant when you shouldn’t be, stingy when you shouldn’t be, wasteful when you shouldn’t be. You do not see the power your tiny, mundane creations have (‘advanced technology’ you call it) until they become your undoing. I am precious, human. Do not discard me with indifference at my disuse, for I will come back to haunt you in ways you can’t imagine. Soon, I will be the water you drink. Strands of my being mingling with your ‘saviour’ water and ‘microplastics’ will begin their cruel reign on mankind. And you will die, choking on your own doing.

cloud nine I like you because you are soft. Because you don’t question the quality of my posture when others would normally reprimand me for it. You accept me, (my back) and my weight for what they are- just me. You mould yourself around skin-covered bones and flesh, so that I may feel no nagging pain in my bottom when I stare at screens, screens, screens for hours on end. Thank you. My eyes, ironically, cry as light induced draught sucks up moisture from the fields of Sclera, and the terrain of Iris can only squint in disappointment. My spine creaks, cracks, creaks, cracks, creakscrackscreakscracks even as I breathe. It complains of the good old days when it was still malleable and versatile; I admonish it, reminding it of the nineteen year-old zenith which I am currently in- Youth. ‘Youth’, it coughs out, ragged and grating, exaggerating for effect, and I give it full marks for sarcasm. My back, that snarky little brat. But my bottom? My bottom remains supple and sated seated on you. My bottom likes you. You’re its best friend. You don’t judge its shape the way Jeans (that snob) simpers. You don’t say its too warm the way Chair complains. You don’t try to squish it into shape the way Swing does. My bottom likes you. I like you. Thank you.

@thegr8walloncrack - Monday Motivation!!! Don’t let anybody’s words crack your spirit!!! You’ve got this (three muscle arm emojis) #mondaymotivation #beatthemblues #selflove #cracktime - Time for some good old school, feel good self-care tips this Wednesday!!! Drink water!!! Grow!!!! Love!!!!! Live!!!!!! (three muscle arm emojis) #hydrationisvital #love #life #feelgood #selflove #crackingyouup - Is it really okay to be sad sometimes? Should I hate myself for it??? #yes and #no #selflove #crackattack - Looking back, I never would’ve thought my abandonment issues would have forced me into embracing myself and growing past all those obstacles I thought would be impossible to conquer. Look at me now!!! #itscracktime #coasttocoast #selflove #dreamsoncrack

@mattressmatters - haters gonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; hate, stay bouncy #sassy4eva - just caught my 106th screening of An Andalusian Dog!! Salvador Dali, more like Maar Dali!!! #jokes101 #hopeyougotthat #punsinmygenesnotjeans #lol - feeling a little decompressed as of late, dm if you wanna know why #dontworrybehappy #itsbecauseofafattywhosatonme #wonttakenames #abhishekyoufatass - never thought iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d see this day!!! just kidding #112andalusiandogs #seriouslyman #showthesekidssomethingelsealready

@beleafinme - Travel diaries day 1: Finally got out of home and made my way to the water cooler, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s so cool haha #traveler #traveldiaries #adventure #makingmyownway - Travel diaries day 2: Bade goodbye to water cooler and hitched a ride on Wind to reach the second floor staircase! First hitch-hiking experience, handled like a pro #traveler #traveldiaries #hitchhiker #hitchhiking #adventure - Travel diaries day 3: Trekking downstairs was sure difficult, managed to do it in seven hours, phew. Thanks to my tour guide @pleasewatchyourstep!! #traveler #traveldiaries #trekking #adventure - Travel diaries day 4: Catching up on some much deserved r&r at the faculty lounge, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sure they mix something in their coffees wink wink! #traveler #traveldiaries #adventure #relax #enjoylife

The End of an Era:

Crack in a Wall

It seems like only yesterday when Crack spread their wings, and enveloped us all in an embrace of positivity and encouragement after a long, arduous, conflicting journey from abandonment and self-doubt. Crack was always destined to be a role model, after all. Not long into their learning and development in Design School, Crack was faced with a dilemma that they physically grew out of before trying to cope with mentally. Crack was eight feet long in their majestic glory, the longest in their family and definitely the longest in Design School. Crack would tirelessly prove that hard work in addition to self-love was a combination so potent that even the most despondent being could flourish with the knowledge of this equation. Crack was always trying to find positivity in othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; lives because there wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t too much of that in theirs for a very long time. You could see some darkness behind Wall that Crack was trying so desperately to distract us from, but one could still see the pain they were trying to restrain. Many would view Crack as a sign of imperfection, of being weak, unwanted and ignored. However, like everyone else here in this room, I believed and continue to believe that Crack is one of the strongest individuals I have had the good fortune of knowing. Forever in our hearts, may Crack continue to grow in the upward trajectory they followed here, in heaven too.

Heaven on Earth, now back Home:

Mattress

Mattress was born on the 3rd of March, 2013. She was the lightest baby in the history of her family and this innate quality of her pure being carried her forward in life. She was always soft and springy, exuberant and radiant. Most of us, her family, closest friends and well-wishers would remember how she would jokingly cough out dust in mock anger when people sat on her a little too â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;enthusiasticallyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. Always the prankster, our young Mattress, who has served so diligently that she has fulfilled her greatest wish of attending Design School in her short, but fruitful lifetime. It is no mean feat to have watched An Andalusian Dog precisely one hundred and eighteen times without a single complaint! She will truly be missed by all bottoms, students and teachers alike. May she rest in the peace others attained when they rested on her.

A Toast to Adventures in Heaven:

Leaf

Leaf had his own philosophy of life, so very unique and true to him that us normal, plain, photosynthesising folk couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really fathom it. Never had I thought that he would pass so early, but I always knew that he had ambitions much bigger than the tiny flower pot I offered him as home. He was my youngest, always so enthusiastic and intrigued about the world around him. So when he decided that it was time for him to leave, I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hold it against him. Leaf fulfilled his dreams with the passion of someone who had nothing to lose. It was this attitude that kept him from disintegrating during his adventures, and for that I am very proud of him; proud to be his mother. I will miss Leaf very dearly, my young child, my baby. But the tears in my eyes are of grief and honour in equal measure, he was the greatest little part of a plant I ever knew. In his words, I beleaf that his soul will rest in peace.

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In(terr)i(or) It is dark inside. It always has been. Light, that intruding advocate of false hope, infiltrates the basement like the true coward it is. The, basement. Not ‘our’, basement. Not our rickety steel stool, not our frayed broom. Not our perpetually present haystack, not our leaking faucet. Not our imposing rusted metal trunks, not our sharp bamboo baskets. Never ours. But this life, as that stool in the damp corner will tell, is not ours to live. I stand on the stool to match my sister’s height, trying to literally gain a new perspective on things because with the flip of the switch my life has been turned upside down. Six months later, I assure you, in all my growth-spurting glory, there is no downside up. We are wrong for eating what we can afford. We are wrong for sustaining our family on the meagre amounts of grain and livestock we have. We are wrong for being born who we are. We are wrong. You are wrong, wails the shredded Saffron scarf lying on the grimy floor. Our eyes are parched, open for moments on end as rabid rangers of righteousness raid our house and leave us bereft of all worldly possessions. Inglorious Basterds. They continue to lead their lives while we now are captive in the basement, their system. Our bruises have healed, all that serve as reminders are our traumatic memories and that Saffron scarf that I have ripped apart with my bare hands. Now and then the wild wastrels patrol, roaring “The Cow is our Mother!”, while our minds provide detailed stills of bared teeth, snarling, snapping and simpering. All we really hear is “We are Animals!” They are animals. Mom would make herself as comfortable as possible on the disheveled, greying haystack, her age and fatigue seemingly reflected by it. “You know”, she said, “Only the really rich have the luxury of being held hostage for safety, Saddam, Gaddafi… Lucky for us, we didn’t even have to ignite revolutions to do the same!”. Wise words, mum, we’d parrot back at her to ensure that the dam of raw strength does not break within her. Inside we scream “They are Saddam, they are Gaddafi. We are innocent.” Our hearts beat to every drip of fluid flinging itself forward from the faucet. Music, we call it. What used to be a shared passion that held our family together at the seams is now just a metronome keeping count of our sanity. Melancholic melody, harmonious helplessness. At times the wind whistles and we are closer to that faraway land, home. Leaves rustle to the tune, a reminder that the world, it exists. Planets rotate and revolve around the Sun just as they have done for billions of years and we are stuck, unable of any other movement than what the solar system decrees. We are, however, grateful. Grateful for the friendship that gave us some sort of shelter. Without friendship, we would have been dead six months ago. We hear the roaring engine of a beat up car, obnoxious yet determined. It has been eons since a motorised vehicle decided to grace our raw mud roads with its presence. Perplexed, our ears perk up, the bamboo baskets on the ground vibrating in dissent. 20

The ceiling bounces, its tremors resounding around the basement. The broomstick, with its tacky pink plastic handle flops about from its dormant haze. Dust clouds the space and we see sepia now, not grey. How wonderful. Voices stir above, but their intents muffled between the thick wooden ceiling that separates us from civilisation. Footsteps drag around and the faucet leaks water into the bruised bucket below with a panic that has the hair on our necks stand up straight in cautious attention. We huddle close together, mum in the center as the haystack blankets us in a meagre yet optimistic sense of security. The voices grow louder in volume, our friend seemingly frenzied in her efforts to shoo away the intruders. We clasp each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands tightly. All at once we feel extremely fortunate for the basement. The, basement. Our, basement. Our rickety steel stool, our frayed broom. Our perpetually present haystack, our leaking faucet. Our imposing rusted metal trunks, our sharp bamboo baskets. Once inhabited by us, ours. Somehow the faucet picks up the ominous chill around us, dripping a steady stream of water, having seemingly lost its own sanity. The dust settles back onto the ground with a docility that can only be explained by heart-hammering, breath-stopping discomfort. Stomps above and the ceiling throbs. Voices echo the familiar and scarring slogans that drove us away from life as we knew it and into forced confinement. Mum goes rigid. We see a flash of Saffron through a minute crack in the dark wood of the ceiling. A gasp from above, pin-drop silence. And then, the bullets.

gezellig

We are not apart. Sharing space has become an experience so scarce that stating facts seems most appropriate. Yes, we communicate through the multitude of modes living in these times offer,

but now, we are not apart.

Nimble fingers card through sun-lit strands of hair, each micro-fibre familiar to touch. Warmth encompasses us in its velvety embrace- a far cry from crackling telephone signals that leave us confused and cold. But here we are, and we are not apart. We doze in the bliss of togetherness satiated by the mere existence of our souls, together. Breathe, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t speak. For I know we fill our lungs with decadent intakes of shared air, we exhale the

lullaby of absolute comfort.

Aditi Singh is the Homo sapien equivalent of a cat as well as a prospective Human Centred Designer. The Mumbai local is currently studying in Bangalore, where the chill in the air often keeps her up at night (so do assignments, but who admits to that, right... right).

structure / subconsciousness order / chaos rythm / cacophony infinite / infinitesimal