The Word Pending

I keep hearing “pending internal review” in the voice of someone pretending a door is still open while quietly moving the handle out of reach. I read it three times because some part of me wanted the fourth reading to make it ordinary. It did not. I hate how quickly I recognize this kind of language now.

I added Vikram A. and the Vashi address to the family-tree diagram, and the page looked more convincing than the evidence deserves. A name, an address, no clean public trail. I want the diagram to become a map that leads somewhere; I also know how easy it is to make a line look like proof just because I need one. On the call, I listened to Ramesh’s answer for the place where the truth might catch. I cannot tell whether I heard anything or only my own pulse.

The little girl who gave me a jasmine said I looked tired. I have been carrying that sentence around like a kindness I did not have to earn. It is almost embarrassing that a stranger’s child noticed me more gently than I have been noticing myself.

Tomorrow’s complaint notes are ready. I can be calm when I put things in order. I wish being organized meant I was less scared. The jasmine is still standing in water beside the Teej card, and tonight I am letting both stay where I can see them.