Periods, Pyaar And Patriarchy

Chapter Twelve

Bhavya looks at the empty wall in front of him. Then he looks at the large steel tool that he'd managed to get from one of the construction workers who'd worked at the centre for little odd jobs. There are six tubs of Nerolac paint- all shades of blue. He'd sat down and pored over the catalogue carefully, looking at the little rectangular tiles of colour printed on the sheet. He'd spent so much time analysing the catalogue that when he saw posters of Shah Rukh Khan on his way here, he'd been struck by how familiar the actor looked. The man had been dimpling at him from the catalogue for so long that it felt like an old friend. The array of stencils, pens and large rulers and protractors alike that a math teacher uses for the blackboard.

He was glad that the space was located on the ground floor. He liked to work undisturbed and untouched by external influences and distractions. He didn't enjoy it when he had people looking over his shoulder at what he was doing; it felt like extra pressure. And he was particularly glad that he had the keys to the room, no awkward conversations that he had to make when he was being helped up the stairs.

Or no apologetic but inquisitive guards who stared at him and his wheelchair whilst in the elevator. He'd made most of the artwork in this area. And he had been paid well for it. The place had grown to look like a boho artisan's place, it looked almost positive. The thought makes him smile; who would've guessed he was capable of creating a space like this? For fuck's sake, it looked happy.

And lately, he had been feeling happy, hadn't he? Ever since the centre had been shifted to the new area. The previous one had felt depressing; he sighs as he thinks of his old room. A dingy space overlooking the main street. And it sucked, to have to watch it, to have to see other people going on their lives like there was nothing wrong. Like he had been doing one fine Tuesday- only to find himself strapped to a hospital bed on Wednesday. It was mind-boggling, how much could change within twenty-four hours.

If you were lucky, the only change between Tuesday and Wednesday would be that Mumma cooked poha instead of idli for breakfast. When was the last time he had something that his mother had cooked? It had been two years, he thinks bitterly. He takes the scrunchie that one of the resident's eight-year-old granddaughters had given him. Pink, sparkly and an utterly prized possession because he had been her beat-friend that afternoon. He smiles, a good thing the accident hadn't hurt his masculinity. And with that, his curls sit atop a bun on his head.

Two years, out of his own choice, of course. His parents hadn't been exactly dancing on the top of the world when they had to leave him there. But he had insisted- he had to do it. He takes the pencil moves his wheelchair closer to his wall. The wall is large, its' empty and there are endless possibilities right now. He takes the protractor.

Twenty-three now, his classmates had already graduated from college; he had stayed away from them on purpose. He couldn't even bear to log into his old Instagram account. Did he want to see his direct messages flooding with sympathy messages? Though of course, by now, the messages must be very old. What about her messages?

Don't think about her, don't think about her. He takes the pencil, drawing and measuring. Sketching large circles on the blank surface feels therapeutic. With every dark mark his granite 5B pencils leave on the surface of the empty walls, he tries to leave behind a little bit of her. The sweat is glistening on his hairline, a stray curl falling onto his. He pushes it back. He looks at the wall, moves his wheelchair a little further back and observes the wall.

The circles are perfect. His thoughts are going in circles now. You should've told her; you should've told her. His old sim cards stand disabled; he wanted to be someone completely new. Would she have stayed had she known about him? He knew she would have and that was precisely what he couldn't ask her to do. He wasn't going to be a burden on anyone; not his parents, not her.