Tulane Review Digital

anchor points, lays the frame threads, and on
and on in its primal need to create a temporary
home. Come morning, I will destroy the
web with a broom or duster or anything that
I’m able to get my hands on. I’ll crush the spider
under bristles or suffocate it beneath layers
of feathers, whatever makes it hurt more.
Amma wouldn’t have been happy to hear
that, and neither would Baba. They’d tell me
how everything has a life, everything deserves
a chance. Yet, I remember when we’d travel
to Dadi’s house far outside of America, into
the heart of Rajasthan where Amma would
scream at the sight of a tiny gecko and demand
it be tossed out or killed. Isn’t it hypocritical
then for them to ask me to let the spider
live? My spider is like their gecko. I liked
the geckos, I found them comforting and kind.
They were sweet things, more scared of me
than I was of them. If I approached, they’d
skitter up the walls in a frenzy, moving with
amazing speed for such little things. They
meant no harm. Amma and Baba would have
said the same of my spiders.
When I lie in my bed and stare at the crooked
ceiling fan and watch that stupid spider
make its temporary web, there are two moments
that I find myself going back to. I always go back to
them. I don’t think of them on purpose. Instead, they
come to me rising from the back of my mind, unbidden.
They leech their way into my life over and over
like a recorder stuck and unwilling to move onto the
next scene. Sometimes the words crumple together
and create new images, different images. Sometimes
they’re the same image repeated over and over. I
don’t know which one is more accurate, I don’t know
which one is the lie and which one is the truth. Sometimes
both the moments come crashing together,
sending fire and shrapnel in all directions, forcing me
to watch because how can I look away from such an
enticing sight?
They are moments that are always there but when
sleep refuses to come and the white lights of the city
burn into my eyes, illuminate my room, and fill my
four walls with noise, my mind begins to wander into
the recesses that I try to keep away from. They are
moments that I want to be pushed aside, especially
after what I’ve just been told.
The call had been brief and short and full of breathy
sobs. They begged me to come home. They said they
needed me back. I didn't want to go back. I don't
think I'm able to go back. Like the spider, my home is
temporary and unlike the spider, it’s not Shiva
or Allah who will come down, their hands intertwining
to become one entity as they crush
my home while I’m still inside. No, I’m going
to destroy it all on my own. No one will take it
from me. I will willingly give it up.
I listened for a long time and then I hung up,
saying nothing back. There was nothing to say.
The phone still rests next to my head, the metal
cool when my forehead bumps against it. I
don’t bother to touch it, to reach for it.
I was praying when they called. I don’t know
to which god. If I sit up I can see the shrine in
the corner of my room. It’s an oak case, a gift
from Bhai. The glass has fingerprints on it. I
should clean it, make it clear but I won’t. Even
with the fingerprints and the dirtied glass I can
see Lord Shiva looking at me with the threepronged
spear in hand. He doesn’t have a particularly
angry expression, nor does he have a
happy one. He seems indifferent to staying in
the oak case. The snake around his neck looks
angry. The blanket with the names of Allah
sits next to Shiva. Under the pair is Ganesh
with his elephant head and kajal rimmed eyes
and the janamaz, brought from the markets of