You say, “Beware of idlers at train stations. They start fights, they beat people.” So—how shall I regard the woman thrashing on the couch, working herself up in theatrical stages? From here I can see the broken curtain and the gob of plaster poorly patching the wall. The air shivers, like the hollow around my heart, but it does not shatter.
“I’ll knife you three times, a thousand times, I’ll stamp you to death,” is the litany, followed by laughter. “I should have been an actress,” she says. She is bored, and there has to be someone to blame. The air shivers, like the hollow around my heart, but it does not rupture.
Agni has given me a boulder and a hill. I know the rock intimately: its protuberances, the way it abrades my hands, the notch it has left in my right shoulder. My foot sinks in mud or sand as I feel the thrill of nearly perfect command—jubilation hari! Without the perpetual push, I suppose I would be—
crying and laughing on the couch or an idler at the train station.