Needs

Clothes and clutching. I have not known the human body but I have done a lot of cloth-clutching. The clothes belong to somebody and I don’t. I am one thread and there are many stitched together. I am not stitched into the fabric of the world.

‘What do I do?’ I hold the hem of her shirt to be somebody.

My mother wore a large chaadar in which her hands would often get lost. So, I’d clutch to what ever I can. It was seldom her hand.

My sister was leaving the home when I clutched her trouser. She dragged her legs across the street and I kept clutching on to her. If she left too, who would I have?

Truth is, the world is so scary when you’re just a child with nothing to clutch. You’re a constant protest.

Will you go with me?

Will you stay with me?

Will you hold my hand?

I clutch on to hope. But I find, it won’t do to be a pathetic child who dreams of a mother each night and is scared when the wind gets too chilly.

My hands are extended. I want to flee.

‘The only way to escape is to have nothing left in your hands. Everybody hurts somebody.’

You can not bury yourself in sheets to remember the warmth of your mother’s womb. You can not scream to the skies all the time if no one ever replies.

I clutch to a piece of tissue in my hand waiting to dispose it off in the bin. The cold gust hits my face cruelly but I do not mourn. I wake from another dream about my mother and don’t look for her by the side of the bed.