It’s two hours past midnight and, the room still smells of summer this fall night. She’s got the mattress pulled over to the window that replaced the wall and, an untouched bed five feet away. There are two novels stacked beside the mattress – both being read simultaneously. The yellow outside brings out the pink in the purple blanket and, adds orange dust to the red pillow. No curtain hides the window, letting the sky change the palette of the room with time and, mood. She settles in with her hair pulled back in a bun made with neat intentions but messy results and a cup of cinnamon infused mocha – her taste often made atrocious expressions on other faces. Continue reading Cinnamon Coffee
It’s a quarter past midnight
And there’s a comforting peace
Of the night
In the silence of the
Clock and yellow streets.
I step away from the slab Continue reading Knead
As the dawn bounced
Off your cheeks like
A thousand splendid suns. Continue reading Epiphany
Shush, don’t make any noise,
Don’t whisper so loud.
Follow me on tip-toes. Continue reading Asthi Visarjan
I’ve got two blue shirts folded in front of me on the bed covered with black as I fold the third. I’ve let the chiffon curtain fall over the window letting the orange dance into the room. I stop midway as I stare down at the pattern and memories printed on it. I can feel the five o’clock warmth wrap itself around me but only through the sweater of fifteen months ago. I gently trace the polkas and kalkas, afraid to erase the memories yet trying to reach them one more time.
It’s a quarter away from seven and the skies are whispering rain. We’re on a patch of green that almost caresses my bare feet as we walk along aimlessly to a spot empty enough to huddle five. You can feel the wind brush your hair away with the taste of thunder on its tongue.
You’ve left your black slippers beside the shoe-rack; ready to tuck your feet into them when you’re back from work. There aren’t any bright shades that blind the eye, just the warm browns, reds and a streak of golden here and there. I see you’ve hanged a family portrait above the sofa and I can tell, it’s what catches the guest’s eyes first; what you want their eyes to catch first. I lightly trace the walls with the tips of my fingers as I walk deeper into the apartment, waiting at the doorway of the kitchen long enough to catch last night’s dishes sitting quietly in the sink. I don’t need to look too hard to be able to find where you’ve kept the detergent; it’s where you’d always keep them – in the cabinet below the sink, on the left, in a margarine case. You’ve left the kitchen monochrome, with the only pop colour being the crimson utensils’ basket.
It’s ten minutes
And I don’t know
If it’ll take
Ten to strike
Or a hundred.