some things diminish: the scent of morning dew rising off sparse grass; news of frying food or what the cat killed three days back. After sundown, in crowded market lanes we still hear the clamour of hawkers, horns, engines, bells, but we may miss the shift in the air as we move from smoldering coals towards crackling wood— or the difference between distant rain and the leaking main under the road behind the park. Most nights, my dreams still smell like worried sweat and roses— but last night I was locked in Amit Shah’s almari; it smelled of moth balls mixed with anger, fear and whiskey.Comments closed
Poems about the dark times.