Like now, under a blood red sky, when the thin film of red tries with success, to blind an already obtuse vision, I sit and mesh with the colour.Or I try to.

Now when my palms are red, a brilliant, gory, magenta red, I sit..I sit on those muddy banks as the water washes away those tiny specks of sand-blurred knowledge across the panorama.
Now when I look at it, the setting sun, the branches, the twigs of the imposing structure of the Eucalyptus, the sylvan beauty of it,now when they make a complete framed impressionist's painting, I wonder if I am a part of it, or if I ever could be one.

I sigh, I wonder as I look into the sepia tinted mirror on the sky.Floating moments and a contour of aberrant times from the days of Achilles' journey stare back at me. The red gets redder.
Queer and warm, it hugs me tight.

And only when I woke up on the streets to the sounds of the distant drums beating in my morphed and marshalled psyche, that I was cold again.

The shortest distance between two points could also be a shuttle cork.

The feathered ones though.

there is an illicit charm of being lifeless.like this.there is a flaming red fire just across that Savannah where my feet dragged me. and did i say i was drugged?or i felt like it.
the salty tangy taste crawls and creeps in..and into the mouth straight it goes.

and then there were days.days when she used to be in frocks and the enid blytons nicely tucked inside the maths hard bound copy.this girl will never learn.no boi mela this year for you.i tell you.yet there were book fairs.the quintessential short term human memory.there were benfish and deb sahityo kutir books which always smelled so good. so irresistibly good.and she carried that smell forward even when she graduated from her sepia tinted days.

pujo was more fun,the goddess came on a lion.she loathed them at the alipore zoo however.but she liked it, this particular one here, in pandals.flowers, so many of them, a dash of vermilion and dhoop, dhuno always made it easier for her to like it here.and last week only she had watched joy baba felunath on chhuti chhuti. and then there were also packets of tiny screechy warm heart aches.

melancholy afternoons. she was cycling on the roof and she fell. it hurt. but not as much as it hurts now.

does it hurt?where does it hurt?give her some painkiller boudi.

it does.it also hurts now.right here.and painkillers?one lost forever.and a few more scattered here and there.she wished she wasn't blind.or worse--blindfolded.it always made her feel awkward and clumsy.

i walked past that rain forest once.breathing and inhaling the scent of this stupor was synonymous to walking to the nucleus of the forest. the more you walk, the more difficult it is to find the way out.and oh!no sunshine and no breeze.

she somehow preferred the sea.always.it gave back everything it took.

take away your crimson dusks.take them away.pack them nicely and gift them to the twilight zones.this is so calm.i could sleep and forget all about 'em.

can they see where it hurts?now?she wanted it nicely bandaged.she had the sedative once.she was drowsy.and she let herself go with the breeze..into the rain forest, amidst the deciduous trees.