In school, a long long time ago, we used to play this game called typewriter. What you’d do was you’d pick out a likely-looking victim, somebody small and not overburdened with friends, and shove him—like most schoolyard games, this one had vaguely homoerotic undercurrents, and besides, the girls cried too easily—to the ground. You’d plant your knees in the hollows of his arms and commence jabbing at his chest with your index fingers.
I don’t know what it was that made me the favorite. No, that isn’t true—it was the way I squirmed and thrashed and squealed and erupted sometimes in laughter and sometimes in tears. Even the real dunces of the school, kids possessed of an almost supernatural stupidity— Debdeep or Gourab Sarkar, for instance, who postulated that old photographs were black and white because color hadn’t seeped into the world back then—had the sense to bear their beatings with a certain sort of honour that prevented a second time.
I, on the other hand, lacked the survival instincts of a possum. Beating me up must have been an immensely satisfying experience.I had bruises on my chest. Tiny ones—no bigger than a dime.
I’d count them in the shower, monitor their shifts in color: indigo to olive to mustard.
But. But there I was, a boy whose only history was the dirt under his nails, the scratches on his legs, and whose future…
My life unlike Humbug wont leak on the internet before the release date.
Let’s leave it at that.