Burrowed deep in the substrate. She taps my face with warm fingers And says- Look, let’s go pick blueberries And eat them raw...

Being in love should be like floating, There should be enough salt in the heart.

I only want the green I feel. The green And your waifish frame. Stairs will never be the same again.

She routinely boarded a bus and when the bus conductor asked her the name of her stop, she gaped at him, fighting with her memory. But all she could recall was a lane full of shady trees, the angry gulmohar, the vibrant palash, the tall coconuts and all the varieties of ixora that dotted the many gardens there.

Today I chopped it into tiny pieces along with a large tomato, a capsicum, four large green chilies because I need spice back in my life, and a large onion. I threw a generous knob of butter in the frying pan and tempered it with whole cardamom, cinnamon, cloves and a pinch of dried fenugreek leaves.

She touches them with loving fingers. They are happy memories. She puts them inside a packet, flattens them with her hand and locks the drawer. Mridula squares her shoulders. She will never see them again.

Is this why people have children? To seek what they have lost.

The two of them, with their own longings, stared out into the void. She felt some of the ink leech out of her, dripping out, thick and metallic, and dissipate into the darkness beyond.

It was her world, her link to outer space, just as the word was hers and hers alone.