Hri's Reveries

I’m lonely here, ma. I almost said it to her over the phone. Instead, I cut the call with a smiling goodbye, talk to you later. I didn’t say it. If I had, maybe she would’ve talked to me an hour longer. Maybe I would be breaking down in tears fifteen minutes into that conversation. Maybe she would feel helpless because she is not here to hug me and console me and I would feel helpless for making her feel the repercussions of the 1500 kilometres between us. There are so many things I want to tell my mother. I want to tell her how I resented her for burying some of her rage in me. I want to tell her that I’m grateful for all the softness she showed me despite burning inside for so long. I want to tell her that I’m afraid I will not be able to do that for the people I love. I want to tell her that I am so, so scared of losing my softness. I want to tell her that I am more and less of her daughter every passing day. I want to tell her that I have learnt every lesson she taught me a doze

  …all my screams weren't wasted into the night If only I'd known then what I know now I wouldn't have pushed the blade through my skin and sacrificed my blood, begging for someone who would touch my skin and not feel burnt, someone who would touch my skin and want to touch it again Instead, all I had ever had were boys who didn't know the pain their hands could cause and the chaos their words could leave in the maze of my mind If only I'd known then what I know now I wouldn't have bruised my knees on the tiled floor and accepted the pain as my fate, praying someone would touch me despite the bloodstains and not flinch for once If only I knew then what I know now I would've told myself it would be worth it I would've known all that chaos would lead me to you.

I. It is summer again and I love to lie in the cool shade of the banyan tree in my grandmother’s backyard and think of summers long past. It is almost as if I hear the tree speaking to me— in echoes from the thick stem, the roots hanging from the branches as if to graze my skin and unlock my memory. The earth has a mind, I think— one that collects the memories of everyone that ever walked on it and returns them when one stops and rests. I think of summer two years ago when the brown-eyed boy bought a few seeds with the pocket money he’d saved and held them out to me in his rough palms. “You like plants,” he’d said. I remember telling him he had beautiful eyes before taking the seeds and planting them in one of my mother’s earthen flower pots. I thanked him and promised him I’d take care of the seeds and help them grow into strong, healthy plants. I remember the look of satisfaction on his face. Time stumbles and slows down. This is how love begins. A few seeds planted in innocenc

This is not a love letter, but I learnt to use a lighter today because you left yours on my bedside table and I was fiddling with it absentmindedly while thinking of you. This is not a love letter, but I got pink lights instead of blue for my room because the blue ones would’ve reminded me of yours. This is not a love letter, but my best friend thinks we will find our way back into each other’s lives in the end, somehow. This is not a love letter but some nights I watch our memories play out on my ceiling. This is not a love letter, but I wanted to tell you that I think we look at each other with too much longing. Your fingers on my thigh and your lips on my neck feel so familiar that it’s terrifying and this is not a love letter, but I have started to know when you’re close by just by the smell of your perfume or the sound of your feet. This is not a love letter but I’m wondering if there’s a way to pull the remnants of you out of my skin without making myself bleed. Your lies are s

“ You are a bitch. Wow.” She tears up the tiny piece of paper and dumps it into the trashcan. The door falls shut with a thud and I watch her walk to me as tears start rolling down her face. This is the fifth note that’s been slipped under her door this week. All I keep saying is, “I’m so sorry, *Riya—” but she keeps cutting me off to remind me it’s not my fault and there’s nothing I can do about it. She decides she wants to take a walk, but then changes her mind in a second because she does not want to “be forced to face any more people.” She considers taking a walk outside campus, but it’s 10 P.M. and empty roads in the middle of Sonipat. “I wish we had an escape sometimes, you know? A bubble inside this bubble.” Her roommate comes back, so we rush to my room instead. A makeshift escape, I suppose, because my roommate had gone back home for the weekend. Ashoka feels endless sometimes and so, so tiny some other times. The irony is, it feels endless when all you want is to know

“There’s always tomorrow.” You smile at him as he says that but your mind echoes back, is there? You unlock his door and step out, but not before checking once to make sure the hallway is empty. You take the stairs so that you can leave the spot of the crime as fast as you possibly can. Maybe if you get out of his RH quicker, it won't feel like you are leaving a piece of yourself in his room every time you leave. You reach your room and let out a breath that you did not even realise you were holding. Your roommate asks you if you are okay and you just nod because you are so sure that if you try to speak, you will end up crying on your bed for hours. And then you decide to take a shower even though it is past midnight and the water is ice cold. You still need it. Maybe if you cry in the shower, it won't count because you will not see your tears. You let the water hit your skin for as long as you can bear it and then some. You come back to your room and your roommate is still a

I hate the way time seems to stumble and slow down when you want it to pass by, and how it sprints when you want it to stop in its tracks. It’s morning and we are still stuck in each other’s arms. But I have a purpose for the day. What are the roots of grief? I try my best to be quiet but you told me before that my footsteps sound louder to you when I’m leaving. “Don’t go.” But I have questions that I need to ask— both mine and someone else’s. “I have to go,” I try to smile at you, “I have a project to work on today.” “Can I come with you and help? Please?” I look at you for a moment in silence. There is an origami flower on your desk that I gave you months ago. The desk is a bit dusty; the flower is not. “Of course, you can come with me.” I pack my bag as you use my mirror to fuss over your hair. I smile to myself, shaking my head at how easily we fit into each other’s mundane routines. I explain the project to you as I get dressed and push you out of the way to comb my