To Dear Miss, On Why I Was Absent in the Last Class
Thank you for teaching us English in the evenings under the Maa flyover. Although I’m sleepy, I never miss classes because Mother says they’re necessary if I want to fly one day. I’d hate to leave Mother and Ammu, but what can I do? In this land of calamities, we gather whatever we can. We also give-up what we can. Mother has surrendered legs; Ammu has given-up her hands. Dear Miss, don’t you worry. Shedding one thing at a time isn’t such a big deal We opt for these things so there’s lesser of ourselves to nourish. But secretly, what really drives us is we can eventually make ourselves as lightweight as kites, fly anywhere on the wings of air. When we lose enough, we will be carried without tickets. No planes, nor money. Like Aunt Rhema. She flew so high, she crossed the seas, went to America. Now, Mother says, she builds computers.
When I turn thirteen, I can choose. Mother thinks it’ll be my liver, eggs and ovaries first --- too heavy to carry around. And unsafe. So they’ll go first. I can’t wait to get lightweight, fly, travel to where I have food and happiness and money to send back home.
Aunt Rhema sent us post yesterday. I carefully cut through the air mail envelope, and there was a photo of her. I snipped against her silhouette like an automated robot, because maybe I hated the blood-orange Hawaii sky where she was supposedly vacationing, maybe I disliked the man in the photograph. Maybe I was plain jealous. Afterwards, I was sorry. I wish I could keep the beach, sand as gold, one silver albatross in majestic flight somewhere close.
Later, when I shared the cut-out with Ammu, she was horrified: Aunt Rhema’s torso was missing, heart and all. Her limbs were already gone when she was here but the torso? Might have fallen off in flight, we concluded. Her head, with its raven-black hair billowing, soared. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but we knew this was necessary.
I sent her a text; we never call, the rates spook us. Aunt Rhema offered to call back when she’d be a bit free in her morning, our evening. I missed class, and we waited by the phone late into our evening, but the call never came. It’s okay, Mother said before we gave up. Rhema thinks we may ask her for help again.
All we were thinking, before sleep intervened, was when we can sever our torsos too.
Miss, may I let go my head first? We can surely do without heads if we can do without hearts. Then, it’d be impossible to keep me from flying.
Regards,
Girl, sixth row from right, wearing butterfly brooch you once gifted her
Mandira Pattnaik is an Indian writer, poet, columnist and essayist. She is the author of collections "Anatomy of a Storm-Weathered Quaint Townspeople" (2022, Fahmidan Publishing, Poetry), "Girls Who Don't Cry" (2023, Alien Buddha Press, Flash Fiction) and "Where We Set Our Easel" (2023, Stanchion Publishing, Novella). More at mandirapattnaik.com