I would often ask amma where does this loneliness come from.. There's so much sorrow and hatred.. I wonder if there's a cauldron inside, that burns with fire. Years later i learnt that loneliness is us, atoms combined with flesh and blood, it comes from home, a salvaged box of untitled memories, it is wrapped in silk and kantha, and kept safely amongst the moth balls. It is a dolorous perfume ma wears occasionally when she wishes to forget the smell of warmth and maternity, the cigarettes baba hauls inside his pockets and smokes them lucratively, trying to feel, perhaps, a little less lonely, or the times I found it inside those tiny Bell jars, in a carefree summer evening, where I kept my favourite biscuits, are now empty and filled with dust.
YOU ARE READING
Moth House
PoetryCorpses of words which had been dead for a long time. Where Home eats her own existence and memories float like dust in the air, with dangerous nostalgia
