Copy, Paste, Repeat

Copy, Paste, Repeat

Praveena Shivram

There is a quietness in my heart, heavy and unsettling, like a newborn baby that doesn’t cry. I am sitting here, in this room, the walls framing my every thought neatly, displaying it to anyone who wishes to see. Are you interested?

No? I thought not.

But I am interested in you. I am interested in watching how your eyes twitch involuntarily when you look everywhere around you, but not at me. I am interested in noticing your hands, as they hang limply by your sides, and then your fingers, as they go in and out, in and out, like a throbbing machine. I am interested in trying to see through the layers you are wearing – T-shirt, probably blue, because the sweater on top of it is red and your scarf is green and you always like to carry your primary colours close to you – your stomach ballooning out with every breath, and it makes me laugh, but I restrain myself. I have been trained to restrain myself at all times, so this comes easily to me. It doesn’t come easily to you, I know.

So, I am interested in you. We have established that, yes?

Look, my legs are shaking, up and down and sideways, like a drunken puppeteer has gotten hold of my strings. I know you don’t like it when I do this; your shoulders must be already slumping into the valley of regret. I put my hands down hard on my thighs, and now my hands are shaking too. So I throw myself to the ground, hoping the earth will not be too embarrassed, and now my whole body is shaking.

But my mind, see, that’s calm, like the last drops of water in an arid pond. You can step right in, wander about, shake your hands and legs (ha), and you will not drown. Find a nice spot, no, not there. That’s where the thing with my mother rests. Yes, that spot is good, that’s full of unsullied childhood memories, when I was still held in an embrace of darkness. That’s right, you can relax your feet, stretch your back out, release the tension at the nape of your neck (you always have those awful knots of stress at the end of the day), because this darkness is a good

5 Chaicopy | Vol. III | Issue I

I am sorry, slave? in my own house.

Soon you will be here. Am I afraid? With all this darkness? You must be joking.

“Sleep time, Mr. Sambandan.”***

You have gone, leaving behind a quietness in my heart, heavy and unsettling like a newborn baby that doesn’t cry. I am sitting here, in this room, the walls framing my every thought neatly, displaying it to anyone who wishes to see.

I have nowhere to go. Are you interested?

11 Chaicopy | Vol. III | Issue I