Petitio Principii

He ushered me into his room with a perfunctory wave of his hand. I recognized the space carved out for me and curled up, crossing bare feet marked with arrows.

What are those about? They only point in the right direction when my legs are crossed under me; the curved arrow on my heel pointing upwards, inwards, to the centre of my chakra. Sounds corny to you but it works- dilated pupils like his can only follow arrows and signs. And I am left to hide behind the fine mesh of my skin and disappear, thinking of how you helped me with my homework, of the quite afternoons you and I mapped out this cartography-for-dummies of my ungainly body.

I was five when I read about the arched heels of apsaras; a foretaste of the immutable strings binding numbers and beauty. Then I was ten and a fat man in a tube-lit room told me my arch was too deep, told me it made me run slow. He pressed a point near my groin, stroked my upper thigh ‘it will unblock the blood flow to your feet, give you more energy.’ I pushed his hand away; I still run slow. And that’s how they lock apsaras into the eternal ecstasy of heaven.