“Boxida, I stumbled upon…” said Bruhi.
“What?” asked Boxida.
“I do not know.”
“Have you not seen it before?”
“No.”
“What is it like?”
Bruhi couldn’t answer.
“What does it sound or taste like?
“Bruhi couldn’t answer.”
Is it bigger than a hill?”
“No.”
“Is it smaller than a carrot?”
“No.”
“Is it louder than thunder?”
“No.”
“Is it quieter than a cuckoo?”
“No.”
“Is it a thing?”
“No.”
“What is it, then?”
Bruhi paused for a moment and said, “Halcuri.”
Two birds sat on a tree branch.
They pooped, and the droppings fell to the ground below with a splash, forming two distinct patterns.
Boxida and Bruhi stumbled upon the patterns.
“The left one is better,” remarked Bruhi.
“No, the right one,” said Boxida with a laugh.
Hearing a noise, both looked up at the branch. The birds were quarreling over the exact same thing.
Anxiety about death is, in a way, funny. When I am anxious about dying, I am afraid of everything I know coming to an end. But that actually doesn’t matter, since I won’t be there after death to feel sad about it. Ultimately, this anxiety is about something that doesn’t even exist.
It’s a common experience while driving a car on a rainy day that when raindrops fall on the windshield, I can feel the drops falling on my hands. It’s so precise, with the slight pain of a drop hitting the skin, the wetness, and the cold. This feeling goes on intermittently even when I have realized that water is not entering the car.
The other day at a function at my daughter’s school, I was searching for my mother. My eyes were scanning for her when I came across my wife and friends talking at a table. I asked them about my mother, and one of them noticed that I was searching for something in my pockets while I was asking about her. She jokingly asked if I was searching for my mother in my pockets. It shocked me, actually, because I knew that at that point there was nothing else I had to search for in my pockets. My hands were probably acting out of habit upon hearing a word like “find.” It made me embarrassed, and to cover it up, I kept searching in my pockets as if I were really looking for something.
It was a stormy night. The sky thundered.
It wasn’t clear to Boxida if she was swimming upstream, downstream, or across the river.
At times she lifted her head up to gasp for air with a loud noise. At times she felt suffocated with her head down in the water. Sometimes she found fun in blowing bubbles at fish, raising her head up fast to gasp for air before going back under.
…
It was a sunny morning. The sky was clear.
It wasn’t clear to Boxida if she was swimming upstream, downstream, or across the river.
…
…
The sky thundered on a stormy night.
Boxida lifted her head up to gasp for air with a loud noise of exhaustion.
…
Big wooden logs and tiny islands passed, touching her. Boxida put her head down and swam.
”Why do crows caw?” asked Boxida.
”Why do hills stand still?” asked Bruhi.
”Why does the lion roar?” asked Boxida.
”Why do I ask?” asked Bruhi.
”Why do I ask?” asked Boxida.
Boxida sat under the tree, watching the mouth of the cave. In the mild wind, the leaves rustled.
Bruhi stepped out of the cave.
…
“What are you up to?” Boxida asked.
“To eat,” Bruhi said.
…
She ate.
…
And went back inside.
…
A while later, Bruhi stepped out again.
“What are you up to?”
“To play.”
…
She played.
…
And went back inside.
…
She stepped out.
“What are you up to?”
“It’s suffocating inside.”
…
She gasped for air.
…
And went back inside.
…
Night fell.
…
Bruhi stepped out.
“What are you up to?”
“It’s dark and frightening inside.”
…
“Why do you go in then?”
…
“I do not know.”
…
She walked.
…
And went back inside.
…
Boxida waited.
…
She stood up.
…
In the mild wind, the leaves rustled.
…
Boxida walked inside the cave.
…
The cave was empty.
…
Boxida sat under the tree, watching the mouth of the cave. In the mild wind, the leaves rustled.
Bruhi stepped out of the cave.
“What are you up to?” Boxida asked.
“To eat,” Bruhi said.
“Bruhi… Life seems to be halcuri-less.”
”What is halcuri?”
”I don’t know.”
The pond was surrounded by rocks. Boxida sat on one. The water wasn’t still. She watched the fish swimming. Some reached the shores faster than others. Some were more colourful than others. It was cold.
She stood up and plunged into the pond. The water was still. She watched the fish swimming. Some were fast. Some touched the shores. Some were colourful. It was warm.
