Vasudha Pande

The painting looks at her suspiciously, observing the movement of her narrowed eyes along a confident brushstroke. They stare at each other in silence.

Minutes fall lightly around her pink frock.

The painting grows impatient.

Did the small red patch just wiggle? She steps back, eyes widened in fright. Could it be? [...]

Nothing makes you feel more secure than the warm, glowing knowledge that you’ll always be loved without having to love someone back, she always said. And I always knew she would end up being a mess. But I never warned her because I envied her.

Let her suffer, I thought, let her get hurt.

She was the violent child in the family: kicking the dog for no reason, upsetting tables, breaking china, biting guests, pulling girls’ hair at school, spitting all over the swings at the park, uprooting mother’s herb garden just because she felt like it. I was the quiet one. I used to hide in corners and under furniture. All my childhood was spent in trying to find ways to avoid her. Mother never understood this. Father did. [...]

[...] He doesn’t remember anything, she says to herself, he was too drunk. She thinks I don’t remember anything, he tells himself. They move on to other things: wine, other people, rustling dresses, cryptic remarks, awkward pauses, other people, fake smiles, jealousy, hesitation. Other. People. [...]

[...] He throws coffee at stars because [...]

Yes, let’s.

Hunt for the jar we buried beneath our giant sandcastle. Find it, open it, listen to the stories we hid inside for fear of being accidentally discovered and understood, get it done with. Gaze together at endearing memories of small fingers picking up seashells and tiny feet running towards the sea, memories that don’t fit on anyone else. [...]

There are some days when you wish to be invisible. You do not wish to be judged. You want to tear away the labels stuck to your forehead. You want to escape, but you cannot. So you drag yourself out of bed, gulp down a glass of water, and hide yourself in a big hoodie. You pull the hood over your head, and walk out of your house staring at your shoes. You hope to be invisible to passers-by.

Only, you aren’t. [...]

[...] A woman sat stiffly on a park bench. Eyes closed, looking within. Removed a black glove from her hand, tossed it aside. [...]