Seventy-six Minutes

What she looked for in every boy she encountered was a conversation. A proper soul-enriching conversation. Because she felt lonely otherwise. She sat at the cream-coloured table in class as her mind riveted back to the boy she smoked up with last week. He had big hands. They sat at the end of the rusted knocked down bridge and spoke of things people usually don’t speak about on their first dates. The bridge had several planks missing. Boltu, the university dog sat in the middle of it, resting under the afterglow of the evening sun. Their legs brushed against one another. Neither pulled away. He spoke of life in Rajasthan. How he didn’t get along with his Ma. It saddened her, but she didn’t let go of his hand.

“I need a smoke.”, she pulled away.


Keep your hands away

In the clouds deep – where they belong

Umm, up –

Seventy-six minutes

In the noontime of my eyes

Numb lover, come, sit,

Gaze into the pensive.

Documenting 1.3 : Our Story by Antara and Sourjya

Hi everyone!

Recently, Papercup held its Poetry Slam 0.5 at Oxford bookstore and me and Sourjya decided to participate. This is my second time slamming and Sourjya’s first. Hope you guys like it. 🙂

Love, Antara.

( )

“Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly”

Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly, as if a million miles away. Somewhere far off you can smell flowers burning. And poppy seeds popping.
It reminds you of home.

Someone tugs at your sari. You remain seated at your desk with your head resting on your crossed arms. Someone should come back later.

Someone tugs again. This time, a lil impatiently.
You look up. It’s Sree.
You pat her and she sits down at the end of your chair chewing the end of your sari, satisfied.

That somebody calls you again. A faltering, softer call.
You sit up, startled.
You stare at your step-child, failing to answer for a while.

“..yes, baby?”


P.S. – The song I was listening to- Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds by The Beatles.
P.P.S. – It’s a Daily Post challenge. The challenge was to take the third line of the last song I heard, make it my post title and write for a maximum of 15 minutes.

M for Mary

I shall never be understood. A solitary story cannot carry the essence of who I am. ‘Stories’: well that’s a different issue. You know, Mary, had I not met you, I would have remained ignorant about so many things of life. Like when you showed me how to dance on that striped, gold buttoned cloud…or that rainy day when we splish-sploshed in the sun-dust?

Last Sunday I was cleaning my room. Mother has regained her health, and also her naïve love to keep everything in order. Spick and span. Neat and clean. Quite tempted, I made a poster simply to spite her. It read-

“If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?”

Albert Einstein

It didn’t go quite as planned. She pretended to be oblivious of its presence.

As I was saying, last Sunday, I was cleaning my room and chanced upon an old rusty wooden box with ‘Anne’s Property’ Frolica 3Ded on top of it. I opened it: forlorn love letters, chocolate wrappers, gift wrappers with bows on them, metro tickets, my first pen that you borrowed, birthday cards, that biology class glass slide on which you etched a rose for me with a marker, the Anne black wristband. It had been years. I simply didn’t know what to feel as I stared blankly at each item.

I held the Valentine’s Day ring and twirled it around my ring finger.
“Sokhi, bhalobasha kare koe? Se ki keboli jatona moe. Se ki keboli chokher e jol, se ki keboli…”
Was I humming to myself again?
Old habits die hard.

J mpwf zpv boe j bmxbzt xjmm.
Breaking the code. We spent hours and hours with our nonsensical meaningless syllables. It all seems a bit silly now, doesn’t it?
Dá Dum Dá Dum Dá Dum Dum Dum
Chocolate stains on my pinafore.
The paper plane landed softly at my feet. A little crumpled. A little scarred around the edges. I nursed its trampled ego. It purred.

I packed my bags. With it, a little bit of your soul perhaps. An advertisement paper fluttered under the Shrek paper-weight. Scribbled on its back, in shaking hands – “Mary, Going home. I need space. Don’t contact me. -Anne”. Not “Dearest Mary”. Just “Mary”. Not “Love, Anne”. Just “Anne”. Moments plucked, slaughtered, lost. None regained.
The indefatigable Post-its wagged their tongues as the door slammed behind me.
In the years that followed, I paid tax to Time…

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tock tick. A rambunctious feast. The clock skipped a beat. I fed on my past.
A soft beam of light followed behind my hop scotching heart. I picked up my cell phone. Scrolled all the way down to the M’s; stopped at your name, hesitated and dialled.
Warm breaths exchanged.
A whiffle, perhaps.
“Hello, Anne. “

(This is a story I wrote a couple of months back. Hope you liked it. Would love to hear from you. Seriously. ❤ Any feedback would be much appreciated. *Ta Dum* 🙂