Photo by Aguss Ballester

Written by Malashree Suvedi

Fragile Thing: Part 2

It is you whom I love. Every cell in your body has an agenda, each has a revolution in mind. They fight you for the freedom that you cannot give them. You mumble prayers to some god as you toss and turn in your sleep, you’re beautiful.

You stopped me just outside the bookshop, and said “Ivan’s my favourite”; I said “Dmitri is mine”. You can tell a lot by someone’s choice of Karamazov brother. I liked your choice.

You held my hand and said “Come with me, I will show you my favourite place”

I walked with you, and held your hand. I thought, what is her name again? It’s silly really, the amount of familiarity I felt for a stranger. You took me to a hill that I know well. I sighed, and turned to you, I know this place very well. This place reminds me of bitter things, I only come here when I feel really terrible about my life and the universe. You said, I love this place, I only come here when I need to feel better about my life and the universe.

I didn’t believe in love at first sight, and I still don’t. But before I met you I was ardently opposed to the concept of fate, now I praise it for I met you and it can only be that. Fate. I told you that once, you laughed at me, you’re rational; you like Ivan the best. But you talk just like Dmitri. You cry and shudder, and raise your voice.

I believe in the laws of physics but you defy them. You live in a constant state of birth and rebirth, acting like the fixed point in everyone’s universes. Your being is perpetually in motion, and I don’t know how. You die every day, and every day I convince myself that you will not be coming back. But you always do.

Yesterday, you said “my freedom has been compromised because of my birth”.  Yesterday, you wanted to die.  Today too, but you fight more. You fight more every day.

You took me to many places, and many of which I recognised. It is like you’ve been following me, like you’re the shadow I lost forever one sunless winter. You know these places, yet they are different symbols in your world.

You said the bridge over the river made for a very good sunrise spot, I had stood on its railings months ago, contemplating ending it all. Better for sunsets, I simply had said.

You laughed and looked at the big birch tree, and said I never went to school in the 6th grade, I’d always come here and sit under the tree to read. I held my tongue, but you sensed a discomfort, we moved on. I sat under that tree all of 10th grade to cry. I didn’t read a word that year.

But I suppose things are meant to be this way. I’m painting you as full of sunshine but in reality your soul is heavy with words you do not yet know how to write.

I took you to my favourite cafe, and I swear I could see the darkness overflow from you, and just as you sipped your black coffee I wanted to take a sip of your darkness. I don’t know much about you except that our grandparents are from different places, and your upper lips curl as beautifully as my grandmother’s hair used to.

You said “I hate this cafe.” And you soured your mouth with a bitterness no coffee could ever have.