chaiNboli

 Days are passing quickly now. Like a bird who forgot the day of migration until the last minute. Seasons are changing. My favourite kurthi is fading. Books are yellowing. Roses in my neighbour’s garden are falling. And me… I’m thinking about everything and nothing. About the stain of turmeric on your collar. About my mother’s fingers that got cut while preparing lunch. My father’s phone which is a bit slow and crashing. The clumsy stranger who stops and stares at me sometimes: unafraid. The precise angle of a hand while pouring tea. The bent of God’s ears, if He ever listens to my prayers. A wandering grief I bottled yesterday with no address. The letter a stranger sent me two years ago. The hum of a K-pop song I can’t remember. A half-dissolved name I want to forget. The sweetness of the chocolate cake I got last Christmas. A memory diluting its colours. A martyred dream with anklets. And— The ghost of a conversation I never had. The way rain knows exactly when to arrive and when...