the fortune teller.

 "can you just tell me what you want ??"

"you don't have to get me anything !"

"god heeya link ta patha please."

"um aaaaahhh!!!"

"are you sure this is what you want ?"

"no.. it's okay if you don't get it just get me whatever honestly."

i did not trash the cards when i trashed everything else. it was worth a good 800 rupees i wasn't going to toss in the bin. i respected money too much to do that. or maybe at the time, it was still holding some specialty in it. i don't know, honestly.

my short-lived fascination or fixation with wiccan culture was expensive, now that i see it. i hold my ailment accountable for some of it, if not all. when i finally emptied out the cupboard, it was found that only the jars of spices could still serve its purpose.

i kept the cards.

do i believe in magic ?

-

"so you do like sorcery ?"

"what ? no no jesus i don't do sorcery ?!"

"well whatever you do, i'd like you to do it on me. you know, with the cards ?"

"you know it's not real right ? like it's just me saying stuff ? i am literally telling you it isn't real."

"just do whatever even if it's fake. just tell me about myself."

"do you not know who you are ?"

i remember sitting down for hours just learning what the procedure was. they were all going to come over in the evening and i did want to impress them. all of them. especially her. i thought maybe i would be interesting enough for them. i always did try too hard.

"four of wands. reversed."

when i look at the pack of cards, they do not remind me of her. all the things i received are now, just mine. 

anything i received, i received with love.

and then the agony and anger i swallowed, would rush through my blood.

and i would feel it in the radial arteries at the base of my palm.

it was a sort of a calling.

come home.

"ten of swords."

we will take your love.

and we will take it down.

"justice. reversed."

the pen name in the diaries i kept as a 13 year old, was ragdoll. like ma's username on blogger. 

all tossed in sleep, 

in the gap between the edge and the wall.

"i'm so sorry. do you want a hug ?"

-

"can you do the cards for me ?"

"huh ?"

"can you do the cards for me ??"

"oh, um, dekhi kaaj shesh hole korbo. ekhon na."

"okay."

i travelled to the dentist with my father the other day. it takes a good long hour to reach, that is if he drives with the google maps directions. 

it starts raining when we make our journey back home.

when i look out of the window, the rain drops are hurrying downwards,

and i think how i shall never understand parenting.

all i can compare with is my dog.

i really do miss her as a child. i think, somewhere i always expected that she would remain a child. that after the day's work was done, i could kiss her bald head and lay next to her. 

when i came back, she was all big and she wanted to sleep at the edge of the bed. not with me.

she did occasionally come to lie with her rear end touching me, but that was all.

i hadn't even realised when she had grown so big.

my expectations will kill me someday.

i sat there behind him, and i watched the buildings run past. i cannot move my mouth much. it hurts to say anything. not like a dying pain, more like a stinging pain that at one point you begin to get used to.

"I'm sorry."

 four of pentacles.

the falling rain on the roof of the car is heavier now.

"for what ?"

 the emperor reversed.

i lean my head against the window glass.

"For everything."

 nine of wands.

for everything. 

i don't even remember what he is sorry for. 

i barely remember him.

-

the spread does not look that great. whenever it does not, i rescind my belief in the whole shindig. 

this is a seasonal religion.

"भाग मत जाना "

 "अड़े नहीं नहीं "

"भाग गयी तोह दिल लेके भागना "

" नहीं भागने वाली 

चिंता मत कर । "

"भाग गयी तोह दिल लौटना मत। "

distance hurts. it always does. it's like that stinging pain in the tooth.

and then the bleeding starts. 

and there is a lot of pain.

 

but then you stop fighting the pain altogether.

and it recedes.

and it's over.

and you're fine in a few days. (except for me i couldn't eat hard foods from that side of the mouth)

five of cups.

you cannot prevent that. 

it is impossible to prevent pain. especially people-pain.

the only thing one can do, is let the pain teach you.

to be patient, to be understanding , to be stronger.

to be tolerant. 

i repeat,

you cannot kill the propinquity to pain.

let it flow through you. 

and 

let it go.

four of swords.

like water.

"was there anybody who told you that life was going to be easy ? fair ? nice ?"

oh no, nobody did. 

but i believe that if there is a choice, choose kind. i always have.

even when i wore myself differently, and personified intimidation, 

i never could be distant or cold or kind.

the star. 

all my life i have been a rest stop for travelers.

and i don't regret it if it has helped them even for a minute.

idiot.

-

my favourite things have never been contaminated by people i no longer call my own. 

i was always so busy telling them about things i wished i liked, that they never got to know what i actually liked. what i contained in me.

on one hand, it was nice. after they left, i never really had to discard of my favourite things. 

all i really discarded were sections of my personality. nothing integral to myself. nothing worth keeping.

losing my little things were a part of it.

a part of letting go.

the high priestess.

to be submerged in the self, was a way i protected myself. 

a way i still do.

i'm not supposed to like anything that isn't mine.

when i do, i hate it.

when i do, i must have it.

then it is mine.

something cracked my neck along the way. how ugly all this sounds.

the hanged man.

i think i've run so far from myself, 

that now i stand with my back to her.

among all the things you cannot escape in this life, it is the self which pains the most. 

an oxymoronic state of walking around in self constructed captivity. 

i take off my jeans and i cannot tell people what happened.

sometimes they are claw marks.

sometimes they are a seal of pity.

sometimes they are battle scars.

i cannot tell people that i avoid glancing at them even in passing.

nor can i say that to me they are like the track scabs that heroin addicts have on their forearms.

i don't think they would understand. so i let them interpret it as they'd like, whenever anybody catches an accidental glimpse.

and i let them call it art.

six of swords.

-

D : I'm not going to help you work through

whatever you're trying to work through.

I just came out here to smoke.

You came to me.

B : Because I wanted to talk to you.

D : About what? "The Horny Unicorn"?

B : No, about... I don't know. I just wanted to talk to you. I miss talking to you.

D : I wish I had my phone right now.

B : Yeah, I know what you mean. I never know what to do with my hands at parties.

D :  No, I wish I had my phone so I could play you the last voicemail you left me.

       Did you remember that, that you left me a voicemail?

 

   I thought you were sober. You told me you were sober. And things were good in my life and I was thinking about my future, And then I woke up one morning and I had this voicemail.

You were happy on the voicemail. You sounded happy. Or lightly sardonic, or glibly nihilistic, or however you'd describe that thing you get that's the closest to the emotion normal people call happy.

B : I'm sorry

D : And you were clearly intoxicated, and you were talking about swimming.

"I'm going swimming," you said.

"Since nothing matters anyway,

and nobody cares about me,

 I might as well go swimming, right?"

B : I'm so sorry.

D : "Call me back if you don't want me to go swimming. Otherwise, I'm just gonna assume you don't care." 

I thought you were dead. For seven hours, I couldn't get in touch with anyone and I was sure you were dead, and it was my fault for leaving you, for feeling good, for not worrying.

When I left for Chicago, you promised me you were gonna be okay,

But I made you promise me that.

Was I selfish for believing you?

B : No.

D : Why did you call me?

You knew I was in Chicago.

B : I don't know. I was drunk and... and I was high.

And I just... I wanted to talk to you.

D : When I found out you weren't dead, I was angry. I was relieved, but I was also angry that I'd given you that power over me. I was angry at you for a really long time.

B : Are you still angry at me ?

D: No. I don't know. 

What good has being angry at you ever done for me?

B : I'm sorry.

D : I wish I could have been the person you thought I was, the person who would save you.

B : That was never your job. 

D : Then why did you always make me feel like it was? I don't know, maybe it's everybody's job to save each other.

I don't know.

Anyway, I'm glad you're alive.

B : Me too.

...

B : You ever miss the mess?

D : "miss" is the wrong word.

B : Sorry, "miss". (a zed pronounciation instead of an ess one.)

D : I'm glad I lived in LA, but I'm not nostalgic for it.

I'm glad I knew Mr. Peanutbutter, even though he's not in my life anymore.

I think there are people that help you

become the person that you end up being,

and you can be grateful for them

even if they were never meant to be in your life forever.

I'm glad I knew you, too.

B : "Knew" huh ?

D : Mm. 

B : Hey, wouldn't it be funny if this night was the last time we ever talked to each other?

...

B : Yeah, well, what are you gonna do? Life's a bitch and then you die, right?

D : Sometimes.

Sometimes, life's a bitch and you keep living. 

B : Yeah. 

It's a nice night huh ?

D : Yeah.

B : This is nice.

-

 Mr. Blue 

I told you that I love you

Please believe me 

Mr. Blue 

I have to go now, darling

Don't be angry

I know that you're tired 

Know that you're sore and sick

And sad for some reason

So I'll leave you with a smile 

Kiss you on the cheek

And you will call it treason

 Mr. Blue 

Don't hold your head so low

That you can't see the sky 

 Mr. Blue 

It ain't so long

Since you were flyin' high 

 Mr. Blue 

 I told you that I love you

Please believe me 

-

death. (xii)

                                                       "Stańczyk" by Jan Matejko (1862)