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A Tryst with Destiny by Aishwarya Roy


Photograph by Jan Saudek

A Tryst with Destiny, an amalgamation of science, divorced families, and love


/the universe tends to not care. Disappointment is the side-effect of caring. So she decided to become a dark, cold void, and called it ๐˜ญ๐˜ช๐˜ฃ๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ๐˜ฐ๐˜ด๐˜ช๐˜ด (an ache to let things go)/


There's a great distance between Maa and Baba when they sleep on the same bed. I didn't quite understand the reason so I called it dark matter,

โ€” ๐˜ฃ๐˜ฆ๐˜ค๐˜ข๐˜ถ๐˜ด๐˜ฆ ๐˜Œ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ด๐˜ข๐˜ช๐˜ฅ, ๐˜ฆ๐˜ท๐˜ฆ๐˜ฏ ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฑ๐˜ต๐˜บ ๐˜ด๐˜ฑ๐˜ข๐˜ค๐˜ฆ ๐˜ธ๐˜ข๐˜ด ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฐ๐˜ต ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฐ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ.


/the only time the universe ever changes is when something unfortunate happens (the universe is forced to feel something; even ๐˜ด๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ canโ€™t escape from it)/


Maa picked up 53 moons of Jupiter and Saturn each, and strung them into two individual braids. The cosmos stayed in my hair the entire childhood, till it got combed out and fell like lice on the custody papers.

โ€” ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฐ๐˜ธ ๐˜ ๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฌ ๐˜ง๐˜ฐ๐˜ณ ๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ช๐˜ณ๐˜ง๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜ญ ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฅ๐˜ช๐˜ฆ๐˜ด ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต.


/two planets collide, a meteor kills off an entire species, black holes take everything from the universe and give nothing in return/


Love doesn't come easy to the divorced family. It comes with the dirty pink walls of childhood, that look like the inside of my pulsating chest.

Our existence becomes a cosmic glitch of epic proportions. We stop seeing people as they are, we see them as we are, โ€” ๐˜ข ๐˜จ๐˜ข๐˜ณ๐˜ข๐˜จ๐˜ฆ-๐˜ด๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ง ๐˜ถ๐˜ฏ๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ท๐˜ข๐˜ฃ๐˜ญ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ๐˜ด.


I marinate my frozen lips in cheap red lipstick that smells like pickle (๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ช๐˜ด ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฐ๐˜ต ๐˜ข ๐˜ค๐˜ฐ๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ ๐˜ต๐˜ฐ๐˜ฅ๐˜ข๐˜บ, ๐˜”๐˜ข๐˜ข. ๐˜๐˜ต ๐˜ช๐˜ด ๐˜ข ๐˜ด๐˜ช๐˜ฏ). In the crooks of my body my lover finds political resistances, chanting the sound of its holy unit, ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฉ๐˜ฎ | เฅ.


And when I sunbath everyday with gamma bursts and Baba's leftover aftershave,

He tells me,

"You look so happy."

โ€” ๐˜ธ๐˜ฆ๐˜ญ๐˜ญ, ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ๐˜ญ๐˜บ ๐˜ด๐˜ฆ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ธ๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฏ ๐˜'๐˜ฎ ๐˜ธ๐˜ช๐˜ต๐˜ฉ ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ.



Aishwarya is a messy poet from Kolkata, India. The engineering student in her reduces the probability of sadness to near zero, by feeding itself salty newspapers of memes. The artist in her reads classics, and scribbles art on forbidden walls. Find her on Instagram @aish_whereya_at.

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