The Summer of Absolutely Nothing

1

In Chennai, summer, the stench of failure was definitely body odour.

Wrapped in my musty sheets, everything smelled of dried sweat. It was too hot. The fan above me protestingly creaked and cracked with every rotation, obstructed by something within. The mere effort of rotating seemed to weary it; inducing air circulation was far beyond it.

Lying down on my bed, full of blinding sunshine, under the window, the door was not far; a bed’s length away (my roommate’s). Dark brown, the paint peeling a little. Dust collecting in its cracks. I was by now quite uncomfortable on the thin mattress, the bed sheet bunched up to one side. It was soaked through with sweat; as was the pillow. The linen had been changed around a month ago; I had meant to change it last week.

Wow. I had been in here a full week.

At first I used to go to the bathroom. Regularly, twice a day. To take a leak, use the loo. Come to think of it, I could’ve washed up too, while I was at it. Might have helped with the stifling heat.

I haven’t opened that door in around a day and a half now. I suspect that I’m losing all the water I drink as sweat.  Although I’m beginning to feel uncomfortably heavy in the middle. But the inertia far outweighed constipation.

My roommate hadn’t been in for a quite a couple of days now. She upped and left on the third or fourth day; in hindsight, I think she had been planning it for a while. All her stuff was gone, even her mattress and bucket. She must’ve hauled those out when I was asleep.

I don’t miss her company. I quite liked being alone. Not that she had been much company anyway - she barely acknowledged my presence. Funny, we used be friends once. I didn’t even feel bad about it. That time seems so far away it might have never happened.

I sighed, flopped over, pulling the sheets over my head. The pillow was wet, disgusting and cool. I felt quite tired now; time for a nap.

Not that I kept track of time; my eating and sleeping schedules had become extremely arbitrary. All that solitude, and my body clock was out of sync. I was beginning to lose track of the number of days it had been since it happened.

I was running low on food and water. A large pile of wrappers and cartons lay at the foot of my bed; despite having a well-stocked cupboard, I would be clean out in a couple of days. I had already finished my own rations, and was now eating my way through the roommate’s. Would I leave the room after that? Doubtful. I would infinitely prefer just going to sleep.

****

Someone knocked on my door. Been a few days since that happened.

I rolled over, ignored it, and hoped it would go away. It usually did.

“Beti, open the door.” My mother’s voice - angry, worried but tearless.

More insistent knocking. I couldn't bring myself to move. Stay in one place long enough, and you begin to believe inertia is the solution to all problems.

However, turns out my door isn't very resilient towards brute force. One almighty crash later, a burly looking security guard, my volubly teary hostel warden and my mother were standing amidst the wrappers, the bags and the dust.

Party’s over, I suppose. My mother was bound to worry about all the unreturned phone calls. My mistake was letting the phone slip under the bed. No way it was coming out from there.

Then again lying was hard. And I was too out of practice to talk. Wasn't even sure I could anymore. Maybe vocal cords dry up with disuse. Something to do with the saliva.

Every good hypothesis must be backed up with evidence.

Above the warden’s excitable Tamil rant, my voice cracking  - ‘Hi, Ma.’