a sudden flow.

solitude is a strange sensation. like sitting all alone on the cold floor of a local train. staring nowhere and lost in a floating crowd.  The roaring sound of Monday market. kids, along with their mothers happily sorting rotten onions. through the same street, university students march towards big bazaar to buy bananas. gentle, unexpected rain on a dull winter evening. sweating, i loosened my bra. rain looked like those strange thin ladders Amma carried on her pointing finger. it smelled of tasteless vegetables. a deep metaphor for collapsed uterus. the screaming silence of Amma’s old Usha-Tailoring machine. endless stories of hunger. Aanjili tree near our well. i wish I could die in that deep waters, where Ponmaan used to live. solitude is a strange sensation. I drew a line, shapeless, connecting my beings. a tiny map of belongings. fingers, like flamingo dancers, searched for love. the skin of earthworms. all these made me wait for the momentary sublime of death. hooked waters.

a sudden dream, like expected poetry. unfinished. but polished like a feather.

i have a strange relationship

with water.

coloured depths.

i can even smell it.

strange fragrance.

ulcer pains.

unsent postcards.

the barren land and an aged buffalo

Ammoomma demanded from that bastard.

all cured with the touch of water.

i could forgive the wetness in my grave.

it connects.

most probably

with women who are rivers*,

deep and floating.

(*

 thank you.)