Fragile

1984. Mother. Republic. Interpreting Dreams. Wild Swans. A Farewell to Arms. Immortality. The Great Derangement. Meditations. Divergent. Politics. 1984- I bite my lip, scanning the odd assortment of books stacked to my left repeatedly, frantically counting. Eleven. Perfect. An odd number. A prime number even. With repeated digits at that! How propitious, I think with a vague sense of amusement. I reach out carefully, resting my fingertips atop Orwell’s dystopian nightmare, gently inching it closer to the edge, stopping just before it tips over. This is it, I think, gripping the cream tabletop, now a dull beige in the dim light sneaking past the carelessly drawn curtains from beyond my window. I exhale, attempting to rein in my mounting anticipation. This is it. Even and I stop. Odd and I keep playing. I begin shaking the table violently, pulling and pushing, struggling with the unfamiliar motion, counting down from twenty in my head. I stop as the precariously positioned volume tumbles over, landing on its spine amidst a mess of tangled wires and chocolate wrappers, the eye drawn on its cover staring at me almost in reproach.

I slump back in my chair, sighing with relief. The Lord was on my side after all. Ten books now. An even number. Time to stop. I reach for my phone to exit the game, my eyes savoring the captivating landscape and superb animation as my fingers swipe deftly on the screen, hot from hours of play. I hesitate, suddenly unsure if I should acquiesce as a grey box accompanied by a pouting cartoon pops up on the screen asking me if I really want to quit, begging me to stay. I tap forcefully and toss my phone aside as the screen returns to a grid of icons, each screaming for my attention. The Lord had spoken. I did not have a choice in the matter anymore. I walk towards the window, mindlessly fingering a switch along the way, and look outside as tastelessly bright light illuminates my room. The smell of rust fills my nostrils as I press myself to the mesh, overwhelming the scent of wet earth so characteristic of this time of the year. I can hear the birds, surprised as they are by the gloom of an overcast sky during the middle of the day. It is beautiful outside. Coconut trees swaying in the wind, water dripping slowly from their crowns, leaves from which threaten to come crashing down at the slightest complacence of the unsuspecting passerby. Squirrels chasing each other in merriment, sniffing the cool air, scurrying in and out of sight. A cuckoo calls from somewhere afar as a timid peacock steps demurely amidst the low foliage, the feathers of its tail brushing the grey wall of the building opposite mine. Yes, it is indeed beautiful. 

I turn my back on the window, severing this vestigial link to the world outside. The real world, where you could not scale a tree and jump off its branches to glide gracefully to a rooftop. Where you could not summon bolts of purple lightning to smite your enemies. Where the sun and the moon did not answer to your whims. Where elegantly clad maidens did not entreat you to save their kingdom. Where a few reckless clicks did not make you new friends. The real world- beautiful, yet underwhelming. So unwilling to give. So very eager to take. I scan the stack of books again, berating myself for having fallen so lamentably behind on my reading as I grapple with a growing sense of unease. I had stopped playing. I had done my duty and yet it was only disappointment I felt. No transcendent joy at having walked the path of control and righteousness. No lifting of a burden. No reprieve. Only disappointment, and a directionless craving. 

I scan the books again, my breath hitching as I spot a thin volume peeking coyly at me from underneath Hemmingway’s hardbound classic, its colors camouflaging it even in the harsh light of a fluorescent lamp. The Art of War. Sun Tzu. Eleven! I grin, elated by my discovery. The Lord was on my side after all! I reach for my phone eagerly, a strangely pleasant hunger clouding my mind as the screen lights up in reciprocal joy, welcoming me back after our reluctant parting. I navigate my way dexterously through frequented menus to the stocked store. Fifty chances. I had fifty chances to get what I wanted. Colors begin streaking across my screen, solidifying into gear and characters, my only companions during nearly an year of isolation, as I tap furiously, rolling the dice with each touch. I stop at twenty five, vexed by my lack of fortune, slightly sated, slightly ravenous. These were precious chances, each paid for in hours of incessant grind, accrued over months, lost in but seconds. 

My eyes blur as I look up at the ceiling, the hours of staring unblinkingly at a jarringly bright screen catching up to me in one fell swoop. My Lord, I think, tell me if I should continue. If I should, then let-

“Nana!” a voice calls out from the closed door behind me, demanding a response, assured in its right to intrude on my solitude.

“What?!” I snarl, wilfully disregarding the term of endearment. “What do you want!” 

“Don’t be like that. What’re you-”

“What do you want?”, I assert, chafed by the amused affection in her voice. “Get to the point or get lost! I’m in the middle of important work,” I say, quickly performing mental gymnastics to construe play as the safeguarding of my sanity, which was of course important work. I do not lie after all.

“Lunch is ready. Are you coming?” 

“No.”

“Why no-”

“Why don’t you get it! I’m in the middle of important work! What will it take to get you to leave me alone?!”

My perverse satisfaction at having turned her down quickly turns into looming guilt at the sound of receding footsteps. I toss my head back, exhaling forcefully. Loathing wells up in me, potent and familiar. I had no right to treat family this way. Time was finite. I jump out of my chair and open the door with a loud click- a cowardly apology for unwarranted rudeness. My mother turns around, her oval face stretched in a grin, skin unblemished by age. I start as I catch sight of streaks of white in her hair, a good six inches taller than her as I am, showing through the black. Yes, time was finite after all. And I would be leaving soon.

“There’s white in your hair.” 

“Yes, I grew old waiting for you. What were you doing in there anyway?” 

“Work?” I say, shrugging nonchalantly. “What do you think?”

“You look too happy to have been working. You were playing, weren’t you? You don’t have to lie. Have I ever stopped you from playing?”

She knows me well. But I never lie. I subdue a smirk, masking it with mild indignation. “Right. I was playing. That’s all I ever do, isn’t it? That’s how I landed the internship. That’s how I graduated top of my class. That’s how I got into Stanford,” I say, my voice now dripping with sarcasm, “I have never, ever worked a day in my life.”

She smiles as we sit at the table, proud. As she should be. “So you were playing.”

“At least I’m not one of my friends. They’ll tell you they have a handle on things and know what their limits are, and then end up passing out drunk by the side of a road. I keep telling them control is a fragile thing, but they won’t listen.”

“Yes, that is the appropriate comparison, isn’t it?”

“Really? You know, Sai recently told me his mom became the manager of her division. Pot kettle much?”

“So I forgot to make lunch today,” she says in an aggravating voice, “and I’m just going to dump all your clothes outside so that the rain can wash them clean. How does that sound? Of course I’ll look for a job right away, since that’s what you seem to want.” 

I grin at her in submission, enjoying this back and forth, routine as it is. While custom decreed unquestioning deference, my mother had seen little use for it in our relationship, discarding it in favor of candor and mirth, indulging my proclivity for frankness and banter, and freeing me from chains that tied down so many others. 

“So, when did it happen?” she asks now, looking at me over the rim of the spectacles I had bought her.

“What?” I ask, surprised by the unconcealed mix of envy and curiosity coloring her voice.

“Sai?”

“I don’t know. Last week?” I reply, reminded once again of the exorbitant price she had paid for me. Something I would never be able to repay in full. “Well, Sai didn’t get into Stanford. So we still have one over them. Us, one. Sai, zero.”

She laughs brightly at my hasty backtracking, looking towards the kitchen at the clink of metal. I stiffen, uncomfortable as she calls out to my father, “Both of us are here. Why don’t you join us for lunch?” 

“Just let him be,” I say, irked by the silence that follows. “Do you want to ruin lunch again? When has he ever eaten with us anyway?”

“Don’t say that. I’m sure he didn’t hear me over all the noise you’re making,” she says disapprovingly. “Join us, won’t you?” she calls out again, louder this time, more assertive, almost pleading.

I turn around, scowling furiously at the sullen silence from the kitchen as the stove hisses to life. “What’s your problem?” I shout, my earlier discomfort mushrooming into something nastier. “Why can’t you just reply, even if it’s a no?” I spit bitterly, pent up rage at the memory of unforgiven wrongs clouding my judgement. More silence. I get up and march to the kitchen, brushing off my mother’s restraining arm, anger propelling me onward. 

“What’s your problem?” I repeat, incensed, barely registering the surprise flitting across his face.

“I- I didn’t hear you. Did you say something?” he asks, eyebrows arching up into a receding hairline.

“Of course you didn’t!” I say through gritted teeth, exasperated by the sincerity in his dark, pockmarked face. I clench my fist, frustrated. “Mom called you for lunch. And let me guess, you’re not hungry?”

“No, I’m n-”

“No, of course you’re not!”

“I’m not feeling we-”

“You’re not feeling well?” I mock vindictively, drawing satisfaction from the consternation in his eyes, “What is it, the fourth time this month? When do you ever feel well? What did you even do to not feel well? Maybe if you ate on time and talked to your family, you wouldn’t feel so sick all the time.”

“Look”- I can hear the outrage in his voice now-”I have to work for-”

“Yes! Of course! That’s why we’re rolling in money! That’s why you got me that amazing gift for getting into Stanford! Wait, what was it again? Oh right, nothing! That’s why I paid half my own tuition!” I yell, jabbing my finger at him, working myself into a fit of rage as I dredge up every resentful thought buried in the forgotten, festering recesses of my mind. “None of us work hard at all, do we? That’s why-”  

“Nana, why are-”

“Most people would kill to have a son like me! You don’t value what you have at all, do you?! Nor do you respect mom. You can’t even hear her when she talks to you.” I snort cruelly, “You know what, it’s pathetic that I even try to talk to you. Why do I even try?” I stomp out of the kitchen to my room, muttering a spiteful I told you so to my dumbstruck mother along the way. I slam the door on the sight of my parents, my father looking after me in confusion and my mother chiding him with her concerned eyes. I grab my phone quickly, anxious to stave off the shame that I know will come eventually, acting while I still feel no remorse. There is nothing new about this. This too is normal. I say things I don’t mean. They know I don’t mean them. And this time too I will be forgiven. Even noxious squabbles had lost their detestably alluring novelty. I stare gratefully at the screen, now dancing with the ocean’s blue and golden sunshine, distracted, relieved. Twenty five. Alright. I begin tapping, absentmindedly at first, growing more frantic until I am left with an unconscionable zero. I put my phone down in disgruntlement, suddenly wary of the crystal blue triangle slowly pulsating on the screen, enticing me to keep trying. This was a line I had sworn never to cross. Never real money. Ever.

I turn around, my discontentment morphing into annoyance as I hear three sharp raps on my door, curt and unyielding. My pride smarts at the insult. How presumptuous, to think that I would respond to such indecorous summons! Again, three quick raps, loud in the stillness of the afternoon. I get up, bracing myself for a stormy confrontation. 

“Nana,” he says quietly, “please don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

A low ringing fills my ears, drowning out his next words. I need a break, I think dully as a hollowness settles in, suddenly ridding me of emotion. Yes, I’d done my time. I had gotten into Stanford, had I not? I deserved it. I had worked hard. Very very hard. And now, I will rest. The Lord would understand. After all, what were the draining events of the last hour, if not unobtrusive permission to act as I pleased. Or perhaps, He did not care at all. The thought, once terrifying, barely disturbs the calm, shallow surface of my mind now. And I watch myself, distant and unconcerned as if about the fate of a stranger, as I reach for my wallet slowly, sure and unfettered, ever so slightly perturbed by the involuntary smile spreading across my face.