DON’T BREATHE, DON’T DIE | RAMESH AVADHANI When he awakes she’s the first in his head, and he doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to die, but coffee is magic: no surrendering, no giving up, he whispers to the mirror, to the shoe rack. The five kilometre jog in the university grounds feels like a visit to Eden rehabilitated, the thirty-two pages of The Times of India reads like an Updike opus, the clients who badger him for more eyeballs appear like Red Cross volunteers. Yet he jumps each time the Nokia on his belt vibrates. Lunchtime his jaws are drugged. He wonders what she’s given to eat. Something soft and pleasant for her stomach that he could span with one hand the last time he held her? He has no idea of what her wet footprints look like now or whether the gap between her incisors has widened. But he still remembers the taste of that one teardrop that spilt from her left eye seven years ago. Five thousand two hundred twenty three cases pending before this particular judge, says his lawyer, and just three judges for a city of eight million. All we can do is wait. In the evenings he stops families on the road, at the provision store, or in the restaurant where he pops in for a snack he knows is already tasteless. Utter strangers, but he gives them his best smile. Then he bends low and murmurs, so pretty, so smart, how old are you, what’s your name? Later if he catches himself laughing at the idiotic Simpsons, he freezes and wonders if she still laughs her abrupt laugh, which sounded like a nightingale surprised. And then his head is too tired, like Achilles overwhelmed by Helen’s feisty defenders. He takes comfort in what elders say: we are all unfortunate in different ways, do what you must but what you can, transfer everything else to the playwrights above. When the neighbourhood turns silent and traffic lights no longer slice his window panes, he crushes his head into the pillow and moist puffs strike back. He makes deals and promises, guarantees gratitude and servitude, and then swallows a .5 mg pill in cobalt blue. When he awakes she’s the first in his head, and he doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to die. ~ Ramesh Avadhani lives in Bangalore, India, and publishes throughout the world. Read another story by Ramesh Avadhani: “Crow”Crow.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0
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AUTUMN 2009 COVER THE EMPTY ARMCHAIR CYNTHIA NEWBERRY MARTIN DARWIN: THREE POEMS MARILYN KALLET WINTER MICHELLE CACHO-NEGRETE TRAVELOGUE HILARY DOBEL DON’T BREATHE, DON’T DIE RAMESH AVADHANI NO FURTHER NEED FOR NICETIES EDWARD MC WHINNEY ON A DRY STREET MRB CHELKO FROM THE EDITOR REVIEWS J.M. COETZEE LORRIE MOORE MOLLY HASKELL RAYMOND ARSENAULT MARK RAYNER THE WATCHFUL HEARTAutumn-2009.htmlArmchair.htmlArmchair.htmlDarwin.htmlDarwin.htmlWinter.htmlWinter.htmlTravelogue.htmlTravelogue.htmlNiceties.htmlNiceties.htmlDry_Street.htmlDry_Street.htmlRobinson_Jeffers.htmlReviews.htmlCoetzee-2.htmlMoore.htmlHaskell.htmlArsenault.htmlRayner.htmlWatchful_Heart.htmlshapeimage_5_link_0shapeimage_5_link_1shapeimage_5_link_2shapeimage_5_link_3shapeimage_5_link_4shapeimage_5_link_5shapeimage_5_link_6shapeimage_5_link_7shapeimage_5_link_8shapeimage_5_link_9shapeimage_5_link_10shapeimage_5_link_11shapeimage_5_link_12shapeimage_5_link_13shapeimage_5_link_14shapeimage_5_link_15shapeimage_5_link_16shapeimage_5_link_17shapeimage_5_link_18shapeimage_5_link_19shapeimage_5_link_20shapeimage_5_link_21shapeimage_5_link_22