Click, click, click. I couldn’t stop staring at the fan.
Its slight pendulous swing was as mesmerising as it was terrifying.
How old was it, I wondered.
How strong are the wires that are keeping it from falling?
Not too strong anymore; they were ragged, visible through the drywall that had fallen away with time.
It was Impossible to distinguish one blade apart from another.
They just blended into each other.
Working in unison; separate but whole in motion.
It hid so much with its constant movement.
There was no way for me to tell the dust apart from its worn-off paint.
If I tried, if I concentrated, I could let myself be hypnotised into believing constant motion would hide my flaws too.
That I too would become a blur of the dust off my experiences and the worn-off paint of my life held up feebly only by the strings of my breath.
And until I stopped moving, until I became still, nobody would be able to tear them apart.
Until then I would be whole.
Read more of her works in our book – ‘Of Blood and Ink’