Insects Are Just Like You and Me Except Some of Them Have Wings by Kuzhali Manickavel Page B

and red for things she thought would happen. She called Kalai every half hour to report on her progress.
    “She ate bread with curd, remember? And garlic pickle. Bread, curd, garlic pickle, I’m surprised she didn’t kill herself. Girls like that always kill themselves, it’s like having three nipples.”
    “Who has three nipples?”
    “I’m just saying.”
    “Who are you talking about?”
    “Srinivasan, da. College Srinivasan. We should go see her. Don’t you want to see her?”
    “I’m not sure. Let me think about it and I’ll get back to you.”
    Kalai spent the rest of the afternoon listening to her hands. The heat was making them swell up; she could hear millions of dead seeds and dried tubers jostling against her bones and skin. She fell asleep in her chair and dreamed her hands were huge balloons. They carried her over ships filled with sailors who whistled at her and said hey girliegirlie . She tried to whistle back but ended up spitting at them. The sailors started spitting back at her and Kalai wished she had winked at them instead.
    •
     
    Kalai decided to join Shivani on her visit because she had nothing better to do. Aparna’s house was simmering under the stress of impending nuptials. The small town relatives were seated in the kitchen cutting vegetables while the American relatives were sleeping with their socks on in an air-conditioned room. Aparna’s room was dark and forgotten, covered with posters of babies emerging from cabbages or peeping out of watering cans. All of the faces had been plastered over with pictures of leafy green vegetables and light bulbs.
    “I feel like dying,” sobbed Aparna.
    “You’re what?” said Kalai.
    For some reason Aparna was whispering and Kalai couldn’t follow a word she was saying.
    “Isn’t this the guy you were going out with?” said Shivani.
    “So? What difference does that make?” whispered Aparna.
    “That’s what I thought,” said Shivani. “That’s what I wrote down.”
    “I feel like if I go through with this I will die and nobody will know about it. My body will keep moving but I’ll be dead and nobody will know. Maybe it won’t matter. Maybe that’s the whole point.”
    “Why are we whispering,” said Kalai. “Is it because the lights are off?”
    “I was thinking of Damayanthi,” whispered Aparna, furiously cracking her knuckles. “We spent the entire study holidays in final year together, the whole month. I don’t understand how you can spend an entire month with someone and then that’s it. Explain to me how that happens.”
    “Who’s Damayanthi?” said Kalai.
    “That American girl, she kept saying her name was Damn-My-Aunty, remember?” said Shivani. “She was from Idaho. Iowa. Something with ‘I’.”
    Aparna opened her mouth in a silent sob; for a second she seemed suspended in time. Then Shivani tapped her on the shoulder.
    “You have a pen I could borrow? Or a pencil?”
    “What for?” said Aparna.
    “I have to write this down.”
    “You’re writing this down?”
    “Or maybe you have a red colouring pencil? Or crayon?” said Shivani unfolding her chart.
    “You’re writing this down?” Aparna said again. She seemed to have said it louder this time and Kalai wondered if something was going to happen. She didn’t feel prepared for anything violent and suddenly wished she hadn’t come.
    “How about a red felt pen?” said Aparna. “I have one that smells like cherries.”
    “Oh Damn-My-Aunty!” said Kalai, nodding her head. “Big, square girl. Looked like a box. Yes, I remember her now.”
    •
     
    On the way home, Kalai looked down at her hands and began to miss them. She suddenly wondered if there were precautionary measures she should take, if there was some kind of compensation available somewhere.
    “Aparna used to say ‘bloody babies’, remember?” said Shivani. “She never said ‘bloody hell’ or ‘bloody fuck’. If it was something really mind-blowing she said