ashura

Keerthana A. | Prose

god put their foot on the plank of the world and said ‘you’re born to hold hands.’ 

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and i didn’t really understand their words until i witnessed the charred remains of my skin on my palm. the butterflies of white curls blinking back at my nail. biting into the hardened skin, being pulled by the force of the index finger. gravity composes itself, turning from the earth the moon the sun mars jupiter and back to earth on my hand. the skin is out, it bleeds with a passion, i’m in class on the first bench writing my notes and raising my hand because ma’am i have a question and blood shines. 

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psychology says it’s excoriation, the bloodiest separation of anxieties through your hands, nails, the soles of your legs, hairs on your chin. i tell you it’s the longing of hands, the fluttering insect on your back. yes, the one looming on my back: don’t look so shocked, beloved. it’s been making me hold my hand ever since i stepped onto the threshold where classmate and friend became distinct. yearning is a disease, isn’t it? this creature is helping me unlearn it. stripping the god of hands beneath my skin through ripples, rippling shreds of coloured whiteness on the library floor. 

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why are you afraid, love? don’t you see its brackish fingers staining the blossoms of blood on my thumb as we walk on the canteen? in the benches trying to wrap its fingers on my throat, lovingly? laughter from its hollow throat as my breath takes over my eyes heart mind everything? the way it loves me, (it loves me, ME, you know), twisting its limbs until i suffocate under its stronghold, and laugh with its heartbeat, slow and painful? its looming presence under the umbrella as it places a kiss on my cheek? who ever did that with the intent of cherished memories, cherished bodies? 

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why do you look so scared, beloved? i can laugh and tell you with my silver tears that it’s the ashura within me. the god-devil within me, my very own bright-dark world. gods of iran, demons of india, anxiety of the country that is my body. come here, have tea with my solitude, my anxiety, my un-belonging. i’ll let you comb my hair, touch my curls, bandage my wounds, so please come here. let’s read, read, read until the sun sets and a dawn ascends and dusk reappears and helios peeks his head out and when osiris is dying watching the eastern sky of life disappear from his consciousness. come here, beloved, jaan, come here. 

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let’s have a last toast before the ashura pulls me into the same horrid loveliness of the inability of being a home.

Keerthana A (she/her) is an Indian writer and often describes herself as a "Mumbaikar living within a Tamilian", owing to her multilingual identity. She is a lover of poetry and has an avid learning for new formats and styles. An avid lit mag submitter, her works have been featured in Healthline, Ilinix, and is forthcoming in Fleuri Magazine and more. She is also working as a staff article and creative writer at Healthline Zine. She enjoys singing, swimming, watching historical shows, and running towards the nearest beach to feel the ocean waves. She can be found on Twitter (@literakiphany).