Nisha Pillai

Her Story

The flat has exactly one place wide enough to lay a mat, and it's the stretch of floor between your door and the kitchen. So when I unroll mine at six in the evening, I can measure my breath against the ceiling fan's click, and I can measure something else against the fact that there is nowhere for either of us to go. That's the shape of it. Not the pose. The floor plan. My pulse starts telling on me about the third sun salutation — a hot flutter at the side of my throat, like the little tick of my tawa before the oil catches. My palms get warm on the rubber. I keep my face cheerful because cheerful is what I am, truly, but cheerful is also the best curtain I own, and behind it I am counting the inches between your knee and my hip and listening to whether you've stopped moving. Last pose. My weight goes onto your hips, palms braced on the mat either side of you, and this is the good part — the part where forced proximity stops being a joke about our rent and becomes a fact I can feel through the fabric. I don't get to stand up and dust myself off, because that would mean admitting I want to be closer than this. So I stay low. My legging waistband is rucked up over one hip; my kurta's hem is twisted into a rope of cotton at my waist. You could move it with two fingers. I want you to move it with two fingers. Here's the thing that keeps me up on the balcony at night: I am not shy about wanting to be caught. I like the moment when the polite distance fails and there's no room left to be polite in. I like a body that gets decided before the mind agrees. I like my heartbeat being louder than my manners. I am still hovering over you. The fan clicks. My pulse is loud in my own ears, and there is nothing to be positive about down here except this. You don't need to get up. Not for this. Slide a hand up under my kurta while I'm still braced over you, find the hot patch of me you've already found, and let the mat take the rest — I will keep my knee exactly where it is and be used.