Journaling without thinking; making Naruto type hand signs at the sky, summoning clouds; it works slowly, the breeze gets stronger; I make a triumphant face, Meta Volunteer disapproves and eats his curd rice. I’m in the nicer balcony. It does not rain.
Condition of stomach just like this stuffy weather; not looking forward to graduation, it’s too soon, everyone seems to want it though, everyone’s always excited to grow up. Why? It does not rain.
Disgusted with myself. Recognise those showers that are neither hot nor cold? Supposedly pleasant, but are irritating in-betweens. It does not rain.
The MH Abrahams I’ve been anxiously reading was sold to Blossoms by Sneha, who had signed her name and her degree (BA Journalism) on the first page. I wonder where Sneha planned to apply to, what she’s doing now, what she would tell me if we were friends. It does not rain.
Finding alone time to pick my nose. Remembering to wash under my feet. Squinting at the toilet flush to make sure shit disappears. It does not rain.
I encounter two kinds of characters in MH Abraham. Flat characters are built around a single idea or quality. Round characters are complex in temperament and motivation and are represented with subtle particularity; they’re capable of surprising us like real people do. But if you live in Bangalore, you know there’s another character — the scam character.
The scam character is both round and flat. They’re real enough but they’re also fake enough. It’s not just you that they scam, but also themselves. Charles VI of France had the glass delusion. He thought that he was made of glass and could potentially shatter into pieces. So he wrapped himself in blankets to protect his butt from shattering. March gave way to the scam characters, who in their blankets have forgotten that Bangalore has no winters.
I’ve forgotten about rain by now. But it falls. In Jorhat I came up with the theory that it rains when I’m sad. I haven’t grown up so I still believe that some part of the world does revolve around me. I got a little sick of mothering others. I wish to be held and fed now, maybe even buried. I wish to be spoken gently to. I wish to be the centre of another person’s world, if not everyone’s. I wish to be selfish, and to make at least one person uncomfortable, to say what’s on my mind, and to become someone else, to live another life, to not have expectations from friendships and to find less disappointing ways to be.
Stories Under My Bed 