I am a very very silent member of this forum who's been following IB and DBO since a very long time. I never intended to post anything here but that scene of Saumya breaking down in the plane has haunted me for a while. This is how I imagine the aftermath of those events unfolding. It is in a way my skewed explanation behind Soumya's transformation (body, spirit and soul) as I imagine it. For the meaning behind the title, see end note.
warning: self harm implied.
She wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing hard.
Instinctively she reaches over to the side table groping in the dark for the glass of water she always keeps by these days. It isn't the first night, it won't be the last.
The quick gulps do nothing to calm her racing heart nor stop the bile rising up in the back of her throat. Even the familiarity of her surroundings, and the bracelet she feels biting into her skin do nothing to fend off against the thoughts, the emotions, the dark all-consuming hate clawing viciously at her insides.
She waits patiently, hugging her knees as she rocks softly, back and forth, humming an old familiar tune of a long forgotten song. She keeps her fists closed, fighting against the temptation, letting the familiar weight in her palm and the sharp sting of pain ground her.
She stays like this until the alarm goes off. She walks into the shower, mechanically and lets the water wash away all traces of her weakness. It is only when she's pulling on the cardigan that she sees the fresh dents and crescents. She pulls up her sleeves, covering her hands and walks towards the door.
--
It's only when Richa joins her, as she does at 8 every day, that she realises she must have been jogging for two hours. She doesn't feel the usual stretch she initially used to. She takes that as a sign and continues down the track.
When they stop again, Richa pulls out her lunch pack and she suddenly realizes she's famished. When she offers her a paratha (it's aloo, your favourite, she reminds her), she scowls and goes back to jogging.
She doesn't stop until her muscles are burning and protesting. She makes sure she'll feel it all day long.
--
She can feel their eyes on her as she steps out of the kitchen, the chatter at the dinner table coming to a screeching halt. The silence is deafening and their eyes are heavy with questions, weighing her down. The thought almost makes her laugh. Instead she looks up, meeting each of the three pairs of eyes trained on her and arches an eyebrow in challenge.
Richa starts to speak but she cuts her to it, I'm eating in my room.'
She's puts her bowl of salad on the dresser and locks the door before they've even thought to chase her down.
--
She overhears them talking sometimes, when they think she isn't around. She also hears them talking when they know she is.
There is a stark difference in the two conversations, even though the people are the same, as is the topic. And she thinks that quite fascinating.
When she's around, their voices are coloured with concern, weighed down with worry. They beg, cajole and reason. Tease, threaten and tempt like she isn't who has always been, like she's receded in age, become younger somehow. Devoid of logic, they sit her down, arms bearing her down as they recount all the reasons food is important, the different ways she's special and unique and beautiful as she is. She bit her tongue to keep the laughter that's always bubbling right at the edge, wanting to burst out.
They call her stupid, but it's all of them acting like it.
She knows, of course she does. Weeks ago, she'd be in their place, her arms around someone like her, her words a vague echo of theirs - only she'd throw in a few stats too, always makes an argument stronger. But they are not her, and she's not anyone else.
She's Saumya and she knows exactly what she's doing even if they don't. They see, but they don't understand. No one can, she doesn't expect them to.
When she's not there however, they all think they do. It's that boy, they say. Even when they think she's not around, they still won't take his name. She considers that a small victory. She's doing this to win him back, they say. She must really love him, they whisper in awe. She curls her fists and lets them.
They're nave, young and silly. But she's never been one to crumble hopes, shatter dreams. It's easier this way. For them, for her and the illusions they're all living.
It's about a boy, they think. It never was, it never will be.
--
The thick tombs in her room are all covered up by secondhand issues of Cosmopolitans and Vogues. The sticky notes and highlighters have transcended academic papers and moved on to fashion, fitness and 10 ten lists.
Perhaps they are right, perhaps she is receding or perhaps she's only doing what she's always done best. Research, recon, reassess, reboot.
--
She feels trapped. There is too much, a wave of emotion crashing at her edges, breaking her apart drowning her, the words choke her and there isn't enough space for her sobs to choke out. It doesn't make sense. There is too much of her, so much skin, so much body. It should be able to contain it all, hold her intact. It doesn't. It's caving in on her. She's in a small cubicle, the lavatory on a plane, the walls are shaking, she can't get out, she can't escape.
It's all falling, everything is. She holds on but it's not enough, it's too much, her fingers are white, the counter break. But the door doesn't. She's fluid, her body turns to rubber and she can't stop. It's falling in lapels and folds. There's so much of her, it's sickening. She can't get sick. She's expanding and there isn't enough room. Maybe she'll break through, she hopes she will. Instead she deflates like a balloon, hitting the walls and falling to the floor. She's so small now and everything is so big. So very big. But she still too much, there's too much, she can't escape. She's lead and she'll never get off the floor. She's too heavy, no one can lift her. She closes her eyes. It all disappears. Maybe she will too.
When she wakes up, her fists are tight and her knuckles white. When she opens them, there's fresh blood oozing from old scars. She presses down on it and closes her eyes. The dull thrum of ache reassuring, solid and real against the residue of her dream - whirlwind emotion and swirling images still in frenzy, dancing in the shadows of her mind.
--
When she sees them again, she puts on her best smile. She knows it works because they usher her in. Their words of concern slide off with her widening smile. She's spent enough time practicing to know it reaches her eyes.
She curls her hands around the amulet, the reassuring hum of pain quietening her mind as she ignores the questions clouding Omkara's eyes.
It's time.
.fin.
end note:
Wehshat is an Urdu word meaning barbarism, melancholia, savageness, wildness. It is:
1. an intractably barbarous or uncultivated state of nature
2. an unruly disposition to do as one pleases
3. the property of being wild or turbulent
4. a feeling of extreme emotional intensity
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