Aryaman Kakkar's Archive

It began when he tapped my shoulder with the subtlety of a war hammer. It was the first day of semester after COVID still rampaged, but we were immunised. All of us were called back to campus, no restrictions, no precautions. Meaning, we'd get to enjoy the pleasures of having a roommate (yay). Thankfully I had arrived early at the gates, said a speedy goodbye to Mom and Dad who had the dropping off routine far too many times in my life as a boarder. Efficient and single-minded, I got my room key and the four pieces of luggage I carried and rode the elevator, tapping my foot to a beat called 'awkward in social situations, so I need to get the energy out somehow'. I opened the door to my room, still as small as the ones I'd been in before, though living alone in such a spacious 12x12 for so many of the preceding semesters had spoiled me a bit. 9 t-shirts in one pile. 4 polos for formal occasions in the corner. 4 trousers hung. Shorts galore, print, cotton, workout (they a...

This is for the nocturnals. Those who wish they would have gardens and cityscapes to walk into and wander instead of gathering the energy of removing the duvet, putting on their slippers, walking all the way to the kitchen, opening the fridge, look at it and then shut it because of how the boxes and piles of veggies are added layers on your retinas. Decide on a bottle of cold water, the iciness charges these arteries and shivers power up the brainstem. Enjoy the cold, and then walk all the way back. All the way back. Wishing they would have the energy to walk out the door and breathe.   You're back in bed. The weight of the night settles in. We can always tell what time it should be, seeing the gravity of the darkness that settles in the fairy-lit bedroom. It feels like it's 1:30 but it's only 12:45, wow so much extra time to do nothing! This is the winter when the night is our friend and a jester as it draws the sunrise farther and farther away, snatching the chance fo...

You love.... You care for him. This is not love, this is the beginning of a friendship. Given time, given memories, it could turn to love. This could be the start of something good, but good things don't last, and you need to be prepared. Be with him while you can, go with the flow.  You do not love him. This is just friendship. Partnership. Companionship. So many ships leave the harbour whose names we do  not know, to crash into icebergs. It's passengers flee like rats, to live, to survive, to escape unscathed.  That is why PTSD exists. Without survivors, there would be no Post Trauma.    It is a funny thing, post-trauma. Everything that is and has been because of Post -trauma. Species evolve to escape predators. Species evolve to kill prey. Species evolve and become predator.  Everything that is and has been because of the PTSD woven into our DNA our foreign strands of histories and memories we would call evolution and the human genome. The mind forgets b...

Glittering, gleaming, shining cityscape. Cinema at its finest as a pair take the wilderness as their stage, their feet shuffling and flying. All we hear is the swish of her dress as it hits his trousers and the sound of dust being kicked up against the peak of humanity. There is no music here.  The full moon somehow has enough light to give and we see each sequins, each weave of their expensively poor clothes, and we are invoked as ghosts of everlasting futures. Suspended animation / willful suspension of disbelief - it's all the same to us. Different names, same surround sound system. Moonlight is darker with the smudges of the histories and poems that clamour its name, and we add silver lamplight to make up for the humanity that afflicts it.  There is no perfect shadow here. Let's change this picture a bit shall we?  Add the dust of a landscape that bears the weight of the artists it failed to provide for. The ugly neon of lamplights that would replace the moonlight and...

  I should lessen the amount of times I cry listening to music, even if it's just for a few seconds. Sadness is a comfort now.  I told someone about a hidden daydream. Wearing a wine-dark plain lehenga underneath a deep lilac kurta. Twirl the swirling fabric to show off my painted Vans; I hope they last until I get a chance. Aquamarine nail-polish and tattoos of flowers as thick bands on my wrists. I always loved the idea of covering my wrist, but never enjoyed the weight of watches and chafing rakhis. A tattooed choker around my neck, I think I like the idea of being bound too much. Not having to make decisions, letting go… I remember reading once “Those who delight in being alone are either beasts or gods” and I don’t want to know who said it. Cause it would mean a man said it, and I can’t have any more memories sullied with mortality. Its fallibility. Everything would fall apart if we gave to it its history and context and author, not because of the disbelief that something...