By Kinjal Johri
When I peeled an orange for the first time, one from the crate my father purchased in the weeks leading up to Lunar New Year in 2008, I did it wrong: dug my fingernails too deep, split the skin in a jagged, ugly spiral, juice down my wrist. My mother taught me then, carefully, methodically, the correct way. To press a thumb into the top, ease the rind away in smooth, curling strips, separate the fruit into perfect crescent moons. Peel away the white strands. Bite. Suck. Swallow.
I remember it all. Follow each step of the instructions with reverential care. Still, in spite of all my effort, the crevices of my fingers cling to the liquid remains. My tongue to a desire for more. Every instance of my wanting feels like violence. I wonder why. Hunger makes us brutal, graceless. I am always digging into something, splitting it open to see what’s inside. Even when I try to write about other, more significant things — my mother’s hands, my father’s voice — I end up writing about myself, the pieces stolen in all my longing. The strands of all the years behind me. All spent ravenous.
Everything I consume is just a stand-in for what I truly want. You, you, you, you, you. Sue me. Knock on my door and split me open.
Kinjal Johri lives in Singapore. Read more at kinjaljohri.carrd.co.
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