Twenty-one days

The postal acknowledgment says twenty-one days and I read it like a horoscope. Twenty-one days is exactly the gap between the roka and the Karjat warm-up. I do not believe in signs but I am furious that I noticed, and I am more furious that it feels like the universe is taking notes.

Ramesh called my personal line. The one the cousin memorised. Ramesh who has seen me walk into every studio meeting with a host smile and a charger pack. Ramesh who told me I had "the energy" when we worked the fintech summit in March. Now he rings to say a photograph of me from the BKC walkthrough is inside a Slack channel called #hosts-private. Private. I do not have access to private. Someone inside the studio — inside — took my face and put it somewhere I cannot reach, and Ramesh is the one who tells me.

I asked Heena to file the takedown tomorrow. I will not open the channel. I will not give it the click of my eye. But I cannot stop imagining who shared it and whether they laughed.

Sonam's message tightens every time I read it. "Bahut kuch batana hai" — my mother says this before she delivers something that ruins the evening. I chose the cafe. I need one thing that is mine this week.

I took two photos in the maroon dress. No one will see them. They are just evidence that I can still make a face the lens likes. I am not sure if that is mine anymore or just a reflex rooms taught me.