A breath of wind ruffled your hair and the blue gasp sounded ever so wilder
Pronto you spun on your heel and the graceful whirl of my dainty hands
flicked in your salty stares jousting with mine
You chuckled, your feet treaded the soaked sand when cachinnating waves sluiced them out
tucked away behind the stealthy sun your eyes gilded my corsage
It was Sloe gin poised over my glass and yet I was an abysm
Like an unsown land reeking of a smidge of yesteryear.
Photo courtesy: asouthernvintageheart.tumblr.com
I stepped down the ball-girls place quickly and swathed my face with a dusty brown scarf. Running my eyes across I slinked past the market by making swift strides. On reaching home I removed the scarf and knocked on the door.
But the door came unstuck abruptly as it was already open. The voice coming from inside was rising to a crescendo. Suddenly the maid leapt up into the view, her face smeared with red tomatoes and mango juice. She ran slap bang into me.
“ Salah Bihari Mango!” Bhindi who was culling the harvest rumbled. I suppose he…
We got the rollicking for the telltale whiff
Of the savory roar of our teenage dalliance
In the liturgical hickeys that furl and flourishes
behind the tattering piles of blossoms
masterfully camouflaged behind the camera
I’m yours… then I whispered
at the nape of cold and satin-smooth pebbles
knelt on the marshmallows
Cloyingly sprawled across the sticky lips of
Pillowy clovers of the sky
Smita Ray is the mother of two lovely kids and hails from northeastern India. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures along with her kids trying new recipes or crafting. View more posts
Originally published at http://thewideblue.wordpress.com on June 3, 2021.
There is a field out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing. I’ll meet you there.
As the silver clouds which are swirling and running an errand across the flickering horizons augur auspiciously, I know you’re awaiting my arrival in the temple sited by the babbling river. Perched on the marble floor, I see you aflame like camphor and I can catch the warmth during the freezing winter mornings. And even now the scented smoke of incense is scribbled in sombre and sedate gloamings, as soft as the grazing of your lips. Ever so lightly. …
It took me a while to find my tongue. …Who are you? Staring in amazement I muttered under my breath.
Wrapped in the evening blush a callow youth wet behind the ears, you were standing in the doorway.
Holding the cup of non-dairy butter and cream I vegged out in the veranda. I could feel your gaze lightly skimming my rose chikan saree. A waft of steamy momo balls immersed in hot, tangy sauce bursting with exotic spices kissed my senses out of the blue.
In the dim light, I watched you sauntering towards me.
…Who are you…?
Warning! : Rotten Humour is injurious to health. The reader is requested to read at his/her peril.
A close look-see exposed the news to my view. I’m a year old ( WordPress is lying! ) and 195 wisest people of the world chose to follow me without any noticeable regrets! And maybe I am just daydreaming, but I like to believe that they are reading the last edited version of my posts that take some time to appear after they are published. After all, the wish is father of the thought! Tee-hee! Feeling like a dog with two tails. I…
A detached calm and unabashed power branded his craggy visage. A lacuna would deputize for the stoic, the heartening splendours of humane spirit, the grit and glory of the gold dust but I will call him the brute.
The scent of mossy soil mingled with that of wild plants and bustling creepers that carpeted the floor of the forest scampering every which way to snare the invaders and sinners that set their feet in their land. The land of perplexity and prophecies, epic and enigma and indelible lore. The ogre and carnivorous plants that swallowed humans alive, their hearts are…
“ We are here to explore our potential, conduce to humanity rather than finding evidences to bear out our live-with-ability. “
To be as you feel yourself a good person and focus on doing what you want to do — is being a good person and is enough.
Sometimes being that un-live-with-able person is a blessing in disguise. For a start, if you remain latched onto the idea of life that is contingent on the acceptability or live-with-ability most probably the bubble will soon burst. As you can never live another’s wish, the damn thing will sink without trace. …
A woman’s pen must be sheepishly compliant, subjugated and enslaved. She must duck and dive when it comes to writing Junoesque, voluptuous words. She must never bare them by putting her hard-earned dignity at stake and never ever ever use blood-red ink because in her untold herstory the gender of her words is invariably feminine. In the realm of unwritten laws, the streaks of superiority and rebellion lurking beneath her impertinent phrases are tantamount to monstrosity
in the eyes of a totalitarian.
Things take turn for better or for worse but reading always brings its own rewards. You don’t just write stories and dramas, you learn and grow with it and it grows on you. You learn to be grateful for small mercies yet you don’t take things lying down. You don’t get carried away by things that never amount to a hill of beans. You might turn from xenophobic to xenomanic and you come to know how little you know. You don’t look over your shoulder if a hair is out of place. You see through dodgy characters and don’t abide…
I am a writer.