Thank God, I am not alive

Thank God, I am not alive | Kavita Yadav

Photo by Bhoomi Singh

Straps pull. Tight. Straps pull again. Always straps. My whole being is straps. He yanks me onto his shoulders, tighter than yesterday, tighter than the day before, as though if he ties me close enough, he won’t lose me like he loses everything else—directions, apartments, time. He jerks me onto his shoulders again. The sweat’s already here, it always arrives before we even start. Hot damp fabric clinging—he curses softly, I

listen, I don’t answer, I only hold. Always hold.

The street opens, no red carpet, only dust. Chaos spills. Rickshaw bell, car horn, child screaming for candy, cycle swerving. And us—straight into it. Oh no, too fast. Brake, brake, brake. Too late. Almost—almost—thud. Not us. Just his elbow scraped by the mirror of the white hatchback. The driver shouts, he laughs. He always laughs. I dangle,

swaying, watching bananas fall from a cart. Bananas. Always bananas, never apples.

Why?

The road stretches like a trick. We’ve been here forever. Haven’t we? This alley, that puddle, this pothole the size of a small grave. He stumbles. I feel the parcels bounce like trapped hearts inside me. Don’t drop, don’t drop, don’t drop. We don’t. Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Delivery one. Angry man. Snatches parcel. Slams door. Done. Delivery two. Dog lunges. He laughs again, throws a biscuit, pats head. Dog wagging, I swaying. Delivery three. Old

woman, eyes suspicious. She stares as though his smile is a crime. Closes the door slowly, as though afraid his grin will follow inside. Time swells. Noon presses. Heat everywhere. His shirt soaked. I am soaked too but cannot smell. Lucky me. Horn again. Bus again. He brakes. He nearly flies over the handlebar. My straps burn. I cling. We survive.

And then—the stairs. Stairs again. Stairs forever. Endless. Narrow. Smelling of paint, dampness, someone’s dinner. He climbs. Step. Step. Step. Panting. Sweat dripping into eyes. He stops at the second floor. Looks at the door. No. Wrong. He climbs third. Knocks.

Wrong again. Woman shouts. He apologizes, keys jingling mockery. Always keys, never right lock. Tries again, fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Confusion wraps him like I do. Every day, his own home hides from him. He forgets, every day he forgets. His own home. Imagine! Living here your whole life and never knowing where you live.

Finally, the door opens. His home. His only fortress. He drops me in the corner like an old confession. He falls on the bed. He sighs. I feel him smile. Always that smile. His dream, he once told me—work to do, roof above, a bed that is his. A job, a home, a life. That is all.

And then the clock snickers. Already it whispers: Go. Again. Now. He drags me up. Straps again. Straps pull again. Night or morning, doesn’t matter. Streets don’t change. Roads don’t care. Bananas fall again. Stairs stretch again. Wrong door, wrong key, wrong

floor. Always wrong, until suddenly right, too late, always too late.

I watch. I witness. I hold.

And sometimes I wonder—am I the heavier one, stuffed with parcels, weighing him down? Or is it him, stuffed with something I cannot name?

But then I laugh, in my own silent way. Because heaviness is his curse, not mine. He bears the accidents, the hunger, the stairs, the forgetting, the smiles that cost him. I only carry. I am only carried.

And so I say—thanks a lot to life that I don’t have it in me, that I am only used for others’ lives. Thank God, I am not alive.