The wrist, the clock, the lens

Three times now. Fardeen on Day 6, Roshan on Day 17, and today. The same two fingers, the same pressure, the same red ring I have to go photograph in the bathroom mirror like it is evidence I need to submit to some court of myself. I did submit it tonight — to the Andheri women-cell, with the audio and Patil's name. I filed a complaint about my own wrist. I typed the words "grabbed" and "twisted" and "left" and they looked so small on the screen, like they described someone else's afternoon. The officer did not flinch. I wanted her to flinch, just once, to make the words land the way they landed in my body. She just stamped.

The 9:14 message. "One more week, Meera-ji." I can feel that sentence in my wrist even when I am not touching it. The clock it sets — I know it is not metaphor, I know it is a real clock — and I filed the complaint anyway, which is either brave or stupid, and I genuinely cannot tell the difference anymore. Heena said file. I filed. That is the system working, apparently.