The Mirror Learned My Name

The Mirror Learned My Name | Kavita Yadav

Photo by Sarika

Ever since I heard them say we were already living in a dystopia, that Big Brother now fitted inside our pockets, that he watched us from glass and glow, I lived my life in such ease I couldn't articulate. The fact that someone, someone out there, was always looking over me, caressed me in warmth. To feel this comfort again and again, I chanted the slogans every week before stepping into a new core:

War is peace.

Freedom is slavery.

Ignorance is strength.

I chanted them slowly, like a prayer. Like a spell. I did it every Monday, standing in front of the screens, breathing in their glow.

This week was Cottage Core. Yeah. Soft dresses. Floral prints. Sunlight through curtains that were never real sunlight. Milk in glass bottles. Baskets. Bread and Calm. However, there was always an interruption. Every week, when I stepped from one core into another, a crack formed in my bedroom mirror. This bedroom mirror was the only thing in my world that was not a telescreen. Everything else was two-way. Every surface watched back. The walls. The windows. Even the inside of my wardrobe reflected something that was not entirely me.

Except the mirror. It did not transmit. It did not report. It did not glow. It only reflected. I tried to break it. Every week. I hit it with my fist. I threw objects at it. I screamed at it. I kicked it until my toes bled. I once held my breath and tried to smash my head into it. It never shattered. It never even flinched.

So I found another solution. Every night, I unraveled threads from my previous core outfits. The silk from my Clean Girl dresses. The lace from my Gothic skirts. The denim from my Y2K phase. The cotton from my Desi kurtas. I crocheted them together, over and over, into a shroud long enough to cover the mirror. But no matter how long I sewed it, there was always a gap. A gap the size of my palm. A gap that refused to close. Every Monday morning, after chanting my slogans, I threw the shroud over the mirror with as much force as possible and ran to the bathroom.

19 minutes: 48 seconds

That’s how long it took me to metamorphose every week. As soon as I finished becoming. I ran. Out. Away from the mirror. This week, Kafka’s insect crawled out from the gap. Its legs clicked softly on the floor. Its body was glossy, black-brown, absurdly real. I ran screaming. No. That was not true. My screams were always unintelligible. What echoed instead was,

Who are you?

Not from me. From somewhere else, perhaps from a room of never my own. Because I already knew who they were. Last week, during my Clean Girl core, it was the white rabbit from Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, clutching his watch, muttering about time. The week before that, during my Desi core, it was the cursed bunny from Bora Chung’s Cursed Bunny, its eyes hollow, its mouth too wide. Before that, during my Gothic core, it was Winston Churchill from Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, smiling the wrong kind of smile. They always came. They always intruded. They always fractured my core.

Last time, they replaced the sequins on my Y2K outfit with mirrors. Cracked mirrors. The same kind they emerged from. And all I could ever do was run. I ran until I reached school. School was the only place they never reached. Because the school was built entirely of two-way screens. Walls. Ceilings. Floors. Lockers. Desks. Even the lunch trays reflected faintly. Everywhere I looked, everywhere I went, there was glass and glow and reassurance.

Big Brother is watching. So I could breathe. I could breathe into my vibe. I could play my core. I could soften my voice, tilt my head, carry my basket, and drink my milk. But then came lunchtime.

And then came that guy. That guy, I hated so much. Every week his face distorted more and more. Not grotesquely. Subtly. Like a reflection in water that won’t stay still. Sometimes his nose was sharper. Sometimes his eyes were softer. Sometimes his jaw disappeared into the shadows. But he was always wrong. I always tried to get him suspended. People like him shouldn’t exist here. People like him should be sent to rooms like 101.

But every time I tried to read his name in the attendance register, his name disintegrated. The letters spilled out, scattered, and blurred. Only the first letter J and the last letter A remained. The middle changed every week.

J———A.

J———A.

This instability made me furious. It made me itch. It made me feel like something in my world was refusing to stay obedient. Today, during my Cottage Core lunch, he came to my table and slipped. But I knew he slipped on purpose. On purpose so he could slide a piece of paper into my hand and walk away like nothing happened.

But something did happen. Something ruptured. Not in the world but in my core. To mend it, I rushed to the bathroom. The screens there usually soothed me. They hummed softly. They glowed warmly. They reminded me that I was not alone. I almost calmed down when I saw there was only a tear in my Cottage Core outfit. Just a small rip near the hem. But then the paper fell into the sink. The moment it touched the water, the screen in front of me disassembled. It did not break. It transformed. The glow flattened. The glass dulled. The surface became opaque. It became a mirror. I screamed. I didn’t want to hear it speak. I didn’t want to hear anything. So I ran. I ran towards my bedroom. But I ran into that guy. His eyes looked straight into me.

Didn't I tell you I only like being watched by Big Brother?

So stop it. Stop it right there. No more peering into me. I ran towards my bedroom, forgetting that an even bigger mirror waited inside. When I reached, I didn’t enter my room. I couldn't. Instead I somehow entered the room of never my own. There, the white rabbit, the cursed bunny, Winston Churchill, Kafka’s insect, and many others were all there, screaming

Who are you?

Who are you?

Who are you?

Their voices overlapped. Layered. Multiplied. Echoed. Their mouths opened and closed, but the words came from everywhere at once. I panicked. I fell. I tried to hit them as they closed in. My body went stiff. I couldn’t move. I didn’t even realize when they tore my outfit apart and sank into me. I felt the fabric rip. Threads pulled apart. They entered into me. Not violently. Inevitably. Just as I was about to give up, something solid grabbed my hand. It was warm and real. I cried, thinking it was Big Brother. Finally here to save me. But it was that guy. Then everything stopped. The screams softened into echoes.

Who are you?

He held me. He looked into my eyes. But I didn’t mind. Not at all. I had never felt this strangeness before. I wanted to contain it inside me. I shredded the remains of my outfits from my body myself. Then there was silence. Silence I didn’t know I needed. I stepped back and looked at the cracked mirror. Nothing came out of it. No rabbit. No insects. No ghosts. Instead, I saw my reflection. It was blurred, distorted from the edges. But it was there.

For the first time, it stayed. And before any other echo could reach me, before any slogan could surface, before any screen could glow, I heard myself say out loud, Jinaya.