and so i write

in the last 30 minutes, i've emptied mamu's bottled achar, finished all the cheese in the ref, spooned out the peanut butter till the jar was only half-full and searched the kitchen shelves to see if i could also find something extremely spicy, sweet, crunchy.

i've also eyed Chhori's pedigree for an instant and then looked away in guilt.

before that, i lay tossing and turning in my bed, with a thousand things crossing my mind like it always does the moment i decide it's time to sleep and cross over the threshold, to where images of gore and slime await me.

and then in the midst of digging out the sticky peanut butter and sticking the spoon in my mouth, so that the butter slid down my throat in all thickness, i realized, the madness for food was because the thoughts were not falling into place. and they were not falling into place because i hadn't found a white space to put it down on and then fiddle the chaos into order.

and then i decided, no matter how badly i write, i shall write for the sake of putting myself to sleep, so that i no more lay tossing-turning, waiting for sleep to come and drown me.

i write- no matter how badly- to keep heartbreaks in place, to give concreteness to memories and to let my fingers tap dance, when the rest of my body wants to give in to the lure of a jar of peanut butter, a box of sweets, a bag of cheese-potato crisps and the touch of a hand that corrupts my soul.