Free falling in labyrinth

Cadavers and Aftertaste of chocolate fudge cake

Dec 10, 2024

I look at hard nights differently; they are much darker and a lot more despondent than other nights. No stars, no moon. Just a ruinous jet black sky and the kind of hopelessness that sets you back by miles. It feels like I’m forced into a Dissection Hall, being forced to look at the cadaver and stand over it with a scalpel. My shadow falls over it, I can’t see the face. It’s only when I take a step back when I see the contours of my face. I recognize the cadaver, of course I do. First incision leads to the first assault. I’m alive and it hurts. The first hurt came from slicing my finger, I didn’t know how to hold a scalpel. And it bled. The first colour I’ve taken notice of, in months. It should be a crime to know how resilient the skin is yet how effortlessly it parts. But resilience means something when you don’t fall apart, even when you are cut deep. Dare I say, the pool of red in that sheeny incision was the first time the dark clouds parted a little. Cadavers don’t bleed. I’m alive and it hurts.

The free falling in the deadness is an ancient ritual. At 8, I became aware of the sinking feeling which left me with sadness so profound that I was apologizing to my mother. For what? I don’t know. It was just a profuse apology while I hugged her, wanting to get rid of whatever that feeling was. Over the years, I was told it’s called guilt. It was not the last time. One other instance I remember starkly was when I took a flight from DEL to BLR. Take offs are usually very overwhelming, maybe because the awareness of mortality is right there. It’s such a rotten feeling, but if I look hard enough, I could feel something blooming in that rot. Last time, I cried, and I cried and I knew that a woman in the seat next to mine was worried. I’m sorry for worrying you, I’m sorry for taking up space in your mind, I'm sorry for being like this. I could’ve fallen to my knees, and hugged her and told her I feel so guilty just for being. In minutes the unpleasant feeling was gone, it was replaced by a faint hope. Living is akin to being on a swing that never stops. Highs made me laugh, lows made me somber. Even the highs are overshadowed by the crash-dive of lows. I need someone to stop the swing.

I hate what I’m writing, but this is what I need. The free fall in the labyrinth is what I need today. Tomorrow I might need something different but this is what my body needs today. Not the scalpel, not the begging for forgiveness. But to let my body fall in a spiral that never ends. To let it fall and never crash. To fall but never know what concrete feels like against my bare bones. I will fall and I will live. Landing will always be more hopeful than taking off.

Living in Delhi is such a breeze. From the cramped streets of Old Delhi to the posh pastel posters in Khan market, you will find a place where it all seems okay. Mask up, just in case. A few weeks ago, after a stand-up show by Shamik Chakrabarti, I went to Khan Market for the second time. Taking an auto from Akshara Theatre to Khan Market, the air was chill, and I was grateful for the long drawn out arrival of winters. Through the sheer layer of smog, I saw a faded India Gate, coloured with saffron, white and green. The road leading up to it was lined with streetlights and the vendors selling balloons with lights looked like scattered stars. It helped that I didn’t wear my glasses for the entire auto ride. Everything was a blur, a lens flare. Once we reached Khan Market, it did not disappoint me. If anything, it lightened me a little. The crowd, the chatter and the bookshop. If you’ve ever been to Delhi or have searched for “Places to visit in Delhi” you know what bookshop I’m talking about. The warm lighting, the scent of sweet cocoa and creamy caramel emanating from dessert shops, and the whiff of lily-of-the-valley and vetiver. The corners had a soft glow of lights wrapped around Christmas trees, the fruit baskets and the muted yellow signage at the storefronts. Air, too, was surprisingly clean. At Big Chill Cakery, I knew I wanted a comfort cake. Chocolate fudge cake, it was. Moist and soft cake layered with an icing that just melts in the mouth, a delectable combination of sweet with a tinge of salt.

It was a peaceful night. There was no moon, no stars. Just an open sky, spaced-out roads and many people who were happy. And I was happy. My friend let me wrap her scarf around me, she offered me the last bit of icing on the cake and she sat on the right side in the car's backseat. I held onto rituals because someone else believed in them. Or perhaps, they believed in me. My life lies in the dependency I have on others and others have on me.

A year ago when I read Normal People by Sally Rooney I found an accurate representation for myself. In the face of Marianne Sheriden, I saw the contour of my faraway smile. Rooney wrote, “No one can be independent of other people completely, so why not give up the attempt, she thought, go running in the other direction, depend on people for everything, allow them to depend on you, why not.” The difficult nights got easier when I had a shoulder to lean my head on and a spare hand to place mine in. It felt so much like taking the first bite of comfort cake. There will be an end to the cake too, like everything else. But there will be an aftertaste too. And hopefully, that aftertaste will keep me going until I get to take the first bite again. The aftertaste of easy nights will keep me going.

Breathing is beautiful, brilliant, brutal. I don’t know how else to live. But as long as someone opens the door to my room, and holds me, this is enough. This is good.

A difficult day turned into an easy evening <3

This is part fiction, part my life. But I know it’s a through and through reality for some people. Pick what serves you, leave the rest. Thank you for being here. It means a lot to me!

PS: Treat yourself to a slice of cake and comfort of blankets in these winters. ❄️