Squiggles and Scribbles of Sashi

Sashi woke up today, annoyed and at 4 a.m. Her thinning blanket somehow turned over and her oiled-up feet were exposed to the ruthless chills of Magh. She angrily switched on the light, as if to scold the walls and windows of her room for the restless night. 

Her belongings in the one-person rental flat are quite minimal, although symmetrically pleasing, like something straight out of a Wes Anderson movie, only, without the colours. Her clothes, from her mother's sarees to her work uniform had to put up a fight with her undiagnosed O.C.D; even the softest of the fabric was disciplined into a neat pile. 

Her bathroom had nothing more than a single soap, dry on one side and slimy on the other. Her toothbrush, however, looked more worried, for the woman brushed ferociously, disappointed at her slightly yellow teeth which were now accompanied by often bleeding gums. 

Her kitchen was completely empty, as she had decided not to eat in her room. The ventilation in the tiny flat was awful, and she hated waking up to the smell of last night's dinner. 

Anyway, it's easier to clean a kitchen when there is no food in there. 

She felt her for her cellphone, which could precisely do the only two things she wanted it to do. For the woman who liked things in her control, waking up at 4 a.m. was miserable. She looked at the time, and without checking for the calculator app, she calculated on her swollen fingers the days, hours, and probably minutes, over how long this inconvenience would interrupt her sleep schedule. 

The world expands from here on, and suddenly, fewer things are in her control. 

In six hours she would have to wash the dishes in the pizza place next door (or was it a few kilometres now?). Her hair was stiff from last night's coconut oil massage and it sat, in its almost solid shape even when she released the scrunchie. 

Sashi's dark swollen fingers told her exactly which month of the winter was the exact month, while the redness of the fingers told her exactly which weekday it is. The bloodiest of all red rose to her fingertips on weekends when the pizza business was peaking, while on Tuesday mornings her fingers almost came back to their normal complexion. 

Sashi liked waking up early at 5 a.m. But now she had another 55 minutes to kill before her routine took over. It was impossible to take a shower in the early hours of Magh, and doing any chore would probably wake up the forever anxious landlord. At 4 in the morning, nobody drank, fought, or even made love. No sound except for that of a fearful dog's howl. Strangely it comforted her, and she thought maybe, her presence would have probably comforted the dog. 

During this hour she decided to review the few things she had learnt in school. She could count any number in Nepali, but in English, things looked slightly bleak after 39. Her memory of the English alphabet was impeccable, but it placed itself like a lump of gibberish. The letters were pushed into a long word which turned and twisted like a noodle. Years of detachment from these letters and books slowly fogged the knowledge, but some things stuck to her, like the stubborn olive oil stain on her work clothes. 

Before leaving her hometown, this government officer taught her to sign her own name, as she was applying for her citizenship. "I don't like stamping my thumb", the then 19 years Sashi had said. "I want to scribble my name just like you do. I just don't know how to."

The officer, after laughing at the unusual request, fulfilled Sashi's wish. He wrote a big "S", circled it and then drew a bold dash under the circle, followed by a swift, almost involuntary dot. But Sashi remembered all of it, even the subconsciously placed dot. She remembers it more descriptively than her own phone number. 

When she had first laid eyes upon her citizenship, she was shocked to see her own name for the very first time, printed flawlessly straight out of the computer. She never cared for the letter, but to see her own "Sashi" on paper, next to this magnificent signature, made it priceless. 

Sashi took out a small exercise copy that she had found underneath the kitchen sink when she had moved in. The entire notebook had already been covered by beautiful squiggles, except for a few blank pages. In the pages, she patiently signed her name. When she was first offered a job at the pizza place, she was asked to sign a small contract. The manager had handed over a blue ball pen whose brand and features had been slightly worn out, Sashi had noticed, but rested remarkably well between her fingers. She took the pen from him and shakily signed. 

"Wow, Sashi! You have the most beautiful signature in the world!"

"Why thank you! Would you like me to write my first name next to it?"

"Of course! And a hundred times if you don't mind!"

Sashi played this fictional conversation over and over again in her head. Her signature empowered her. She could cover every inch of her flat with it. She could write it all over her arms and feet, her belongings, her clothes. The world does expand from here on, because, of course, she needs more places to write. 

But people wouldn't understand, so she signed on the back of a used notebook. 

The curves of the "S", the circle around it, the dash and the dot, she looked at them and they looked back as if she was really the most elegant writer, the most learned woman. She knew how to sign her own name. What else is left? She was already a literate person. There was no difference between the squiggles and scribbles of Sashi, for the writer could cover his entire notebook with squiggly lines, and so could she. 

4 a.m. turned to 6 a.m. Her hair was now stiff and cold, waiting for a wash that would melt away the oil. She neatly tucked away "her" exercise book and pen, and fished out the shampoo sachet. The "S" of Sunsilk Shampoo was strikingly similar to the "S" of her own signature. Amazing! Same curve and design! Sashi was fully convinced now. She could do anything. If Sashi could sign her name, she could do anything. The world has no idea what she can do. But they will. All they need to do is ask for her signature. 

-अनुश्रुति अधिकारी