In the spirit of magic realism here is Devjani Bodepudi’s short story ..
I walk into the room and the air is crisp. It’s not the air of inside.
I see it then, the open window. It explains the cold, the feeling of space. It explains the quality of light.
I walk through, to the kitchen and, there she is. Her legs sprawled out in awkward angles. She does not look beautiful, graceful, dignified. She looks clumsy, dead. The pool of red is the only sign of colour within her monochrome setting. Shiny white tiles, granite worktops, colourless glass, everywhere. It’s sterile. Not lived in.
Stepping over her, I notice her face, partially obscured by her arm. I stoop to get a better look, and again, there is nothing remarkable. Dark circles, high cheekbones, dry skin, fine lines. Her eyes are open.
Silently, I walk through her flat and there are no pictures of loved ones. The phone does not blink with messages. There was no life here, to begin with.
I’m tapped on the shoulder and I turn. She looks at me quizzically. I suppose she’s ready.
“What are you doing in my apartment? Who are you?” she asks.
I know she knows. They all know.
“Come,” I say.
And she does. She looks behind, as we step out.
“Should I close the window?” she asks.
She won’t be able to close the window. It’s too late to physically do anything now.
“No need,” I simply say. “Besides, it’s good to let in a bit of air.”
