hii I've been assigned a hand-in task for english adv in year 11, where I have to write a 700-800 word imaginative piece responding to the stimulus: 'I wonder if my empathy has always been this, in every case: just a bout of hypothetical self-pity projected onto someone else. Is this ultimately just solipsism?'

I would love to get some feedback, particularly regarding my adherance to the stimulus and the complexity of my characters.

I've used some terms from an Indian cultural dance form:
1) Takita dhikita takita dhikita = lyrics/beats of the dance
2) Ghunghroos = ankle bells/ a prop
3) Dadi = grandmother

Takita dhikita takita dhikita. The ghunghroos thunder against my ankles, forging their way into my skin as I spin, once, twice, nine times on the wooden floorboards. I’ve lost count. When will this end? Dadi’s voice slices the rhythm, ‘Keep your hands steady!’ My hands quiver, yet I cannot stop. My body chooses to comply instead with the music, the mesmerising tabla beats in the backdrop. Every limb sways in unison. Takita dhikita. But Dadi’s voice interrupts, yet again. Oceans of fatigue whirl within my head, yet mere droplets fall from grace, trickling down to my anglicized smile. It wavers. Takita dha.

***

The ghunghroos fall away with a scathing sigh as my sagging eyelids flutter awake to a still hospital room. I breathe in the crisp morning air, tasting, savouring, and swaying to its morningsong. O breeze! How wonderful it would be if you could carry me away in your loving arms! But it betrays me soon, stealing away from my senses until that sweetness becomes a mere memory. A bitter taste remains in its wake. I have such a long way to go.
Still, I rise. Dadi’s used bedpan lies expectantly, a shameless flirt, waiting to be scrubbed. Yet my hands are mountains by my side, unmoving and unwilling. I glance at her, a cold corpse on white sheets. Almost.
I find myself following her deep, garish veins as they lead the way to the mounds of her collarbones begging to escape. The Holter monitor shrieks in the background, ta thei thei, fracturing the silence, as the world around me distorts and disappears and I feel as if I am being carried far, far away.
I stare. Unblinking. Sprawled before me now is not my grandmother, but me. I am she and she is me. My eyes are hollow, with deep, sagging bags hanging loosely from their sockets. They seem to be pointing, like an accusatory finger, at the small of the bed. I follow their trail, my heart burning. Is this truly me? What if someone sees me here? I wonder, ‘Who is caring for me?’
A dark, rusted bedpan, sitting by my feet, stares back at me. It ebbs and brims, matching the Holter monitor’s calls. Ta thei thei. I realise that I am surrounded by no one. The sudden urge to hold myself engulfs me, and the air escapes my lungs, replaced by the repugnant stench of urine. Yet, I cannot move. It’s as if I am waiting for someone to pull me away.
White walls fall away as I gasp for air. My eyes frantically dart from left to right, only satisfied when I see my Dadi’s serene body where I left her. Am I conscious now? Maybe I should invest in a spinning top. Readily, I rise. The used bedpan calls out my name. And this time, I find myself eager to respond.

***

The sun sets quietly over the distance, adamant to evoke our patience after a long day. My earphones drop away, complying with the rules as if by muscle memory, and without missing a beat, my knees drop to the floor for prayer, with my hands folded in such earnest that my knuckles are borne white. Dadi’s past scoldings maneuver my words, and I regurgitate them perfectly. ‘Dear God, thank you for everything you have done for your daughter.’ My eyes drift towards Dadi’s stagnant body. ‘I know that you have a plan for us. I promise, I understand.’ My whispers quiver. ‘But please.’
‘Please, do not let your daughter suffer.’
I return to my post by her side, like I have all the months before, encompassing her fragility, and her once hardened hands turning limp on the hospital bed. Echoes of her wrist cracking when she tried to practice her hand mudras reverberate in my ears. Her once steady hands are now trembling on a tumultuous path. She cannot stop. She seems so fragile, so low. Venturing forward, my nimble fingers reach out towards her’s, calloused and bruised, like roots towards soil. The moment in between lingers. Her body turns to face mine. I recoil.
‘Granddaughter.’ Her voice is almost lost in the wind. I do not recognise it any longer. It seems, robbed of Dadi. My eyes look down at hers, strings of milky white brimming with emotion. Her head tilts, and I can only assume she is ushering me to her side. Ta thei thei, the Holter monitor echoes. Suddenly, I have shrunk to half my height, with my hair in girlish plaits. ‘Yes, Dadi?’ Even my voice is higher, innocent even. Her cheeks sag comfortably on her neck, and she looks gentle. Remarkably, I want to hold her; I want her to be alright again. I think about those grandmothers who hold their grandchildren close, who can be told anything and everything. I weigh my options, gazing softly into her milky eyes. Is this the right moment to tell her?
‘You will carry on my name, won’t you?’
My lips quiver,

***

Sometimes I feel like I am being ripped apart from both sides. One part of me wants the rigid sofa I spend my nights on to yell at her. Her bedpan that I held, and later scrubbed, to confess. I wish the walls could vouch that I did what she asked of me. To bear witness to the endless days and nights I spent at her bedside, only to be this shadow in her eyes. Perhaps, if she bothered to ask what I wanted, things would be different.
Yet the other part cannot help but glance at her quivering hands and brim with tears. It cannot help but drift towards my own, steady and strong, and wonder. Is this what I am meant for?
The breeze begins to bite, and I slowly, gently close the window.