Memento Mori

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I am a new addict to lipstick. I wear dark shades that can’t be hidden. I wear shades of red. I wear it, I look at myself in the mirror, then wipe it away. Then I wear it again. On days I sit next to my water dispenser wearing my brightest of red lipstick. My arms dangle mid-air, resting partly on my knees that are bent in the shape of a steep bridge. That spot is neither in my kitchen nor in my living room. I occupy that space. In that square of a mirror hanging at acute angles on the wall of my room, where dust particles fight for space with every new visitor, I fix my make-up. Grandmother who died a few days back finally came in my dreams today. She was dead in the dream. My grandfather on the news of wife’s death committed suicide in the dream. He was as old as I remember him. He chose a corner of their room to hang himself. Not the old fan for him.

I saw him suspended from a beam. Making a strange angle with the wall. I couldn’t decide if it was acute or obtuse. No one was in a hurry to bring him down. The mirror on the wall showed me his swinging body, swaying with such peace and such grace like it had all the time in the world. The dead after all are in no hurry. Not my grandmother, though. She reminded me to grind the elaichi to get a better flavor in my chai. The woman was a horrible cook. It was funny that she should come in my dream after dying and remind me of grinding the elachi. Properly, she said. Properly, I repeated. In the meanime grandfather continued his dance with the angles. Acute-Obtuse. Obtuse-Acute. The mirror knows everything. My lipstick today is maroon. The stick is broken I use my index finger to dab it evenly. The mirror where grandfather continues to sway makes space for me. I wear my lipstick. It doesn’t go with any of my clothes. So I remove all of them. My breasts have dried up scars from all the boils I burst like water balloons. My stomach has stretch marks from the belt of the school uniform which was always a little too tight. My underarms are dark and unshaven. I darken my lipstick. Smile at grandfather and occupy my space. The way I am supposed to. My square inch of vacant, empty space. Right next to the water dispenser.

 

Manjiri Indurkar writes from New Delhi. Pursuing an M.A. in English Literature from Ambedkar University, Delhi, she is the founder and editor of web-based literary and cultural magazine AntiSerious. She has been published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, The Newer York, Motherland Magazine, Kindle Magazine, The NorthEast Review, The Four Quarters Magazine, and The Bangalore Review.