I imagine the wind undressing me,

Black clouds forming lead buttons.


One by one,

they come off,

as the music plays

in a quite peculiar fashion.


The old, black Tv looks like a dumb box

My mother feeding me rice balls

The smell of masala dosa

Arising and landing into my nostrils,

Rancid lake-water from grandmother’s house

The smell of fevi-quick. Acetone. Nail polish.

Coffee. Roast and warm. Home.

The way my house smelt like

Maybe like two old butts stuck together for ages.


I don’t know what i am saying.

It’s quite hazy with all the cold wind blowing

Or is it a dashing forty- five degrees?


Origami finds order

But only creases and folds

reach my heart.

I find myself

huddled in a corner

dressed in a black suit

worrying about

the white stain.





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