The Opposite of Nostalgia

106 Jeet Thayil The Opposite of Nostalgia I’m trying to forget those days one day at a time— the pitiful rooms with their puddles of light, the women I haggled with, the car stopped in the street, the wife barefoot, on the run, car keys in her hand. Or I’m there, the sum of my ambition defined by an old rage, my anger like a slow child hitting out at anyone who comes her way. I’m thinking of the negotiation with strangers, the attempt to say things differently, the men’s room at the airport, the glassine bag, the rolled-up note, the line hitting the back of my throat with a kick like an anesthetic, and, later, the paramedic saying I’m lucky to be alive, and telling him he’s wrong, I’m not lucky or alive, just high. ...