The Lamp Will Not Switch Off

The lamp will not switch off. I have been lying here long enough that the bulb feels like a small sun burning for no one, and I still cannot make my hand reach the cord. That is the kind of day it has been.

BKC is in. Two more September dates at full fee plus a repeat bump, Ramesh Choudhry calling my own number, not the referral line, the kind of phone call I used to dream about two years ago. I should be out of my skin with relief. I am not. I am lying very still, because four hours later the cousin's people pinged to tell me they already knew about Ramesh. Whatever I win, they are standing close enough to read over my shoulder. The win and the leash landed in the same hour.

The envelope landed later, on the Bandra footbridge. A courier I have never seen before slipped it into my tote. He hit the same hip Patil shoved on Day 8. Right hip. I am not pretending that is a coincidence. Inside was a printed screenshot of my Ramesh call log, timestamped 4:03pm. They have my number and my minutes.

I sent the Telegram screenshot to Heena from the dining table. I accepted the BKC dates with one condition: the cousin's name does not appear on any BKC set, in any capacity. Not even chai-wala.

The Telegram poll is at 142 votes. My face half-hidden under a dupatta I did not choose to be pulled. I should not have looked. I looked.