By Aishee Ghoshal
I see time as it must have been before we learnt
To cut it up in days and weeks and months-
We cut up the world to understand it better.
But now, four walls closing in on me
Prison cell or the magic protective circle of salt,
I can no longer tell.
Days have blurred, one flows seamlessly into the other
Endless light flowing in through the window, white turning into orange and then a dark sky spilling shadows,
day and night and day again.
The pages of the calendar are the only thing that has retained
An ounce of change.
It’s Friday. For what it’s worth.
Gloomy, dull and gray. The promise of rain in the air,
Waking and sleeping, chasing one with the other over and over
The hands of the clock keep changing. It’s raining.
The day has ended before it started. I pull up the covers,
I imagine it is July. I imagine the air is clean.
I cling on to the kolbalish, the softness of the long stuffed pillow
I imagine it is your skin.
The dull lullaby of the rain, sings me to sleep
I dream of narrow lanes, holding hands, phuchka stalls
I dream of open meadows, air unfiltered by the mask, filling my lungs
Streets buzzing with life, pandemic- a word half forgotten, trapped in history books
And us, so blissfully unaware of how precious this life looks
when seen from a tower, claustrophobic princess of a forgotten fairytale
locked up for her own good-
she would slay a thousand dragons if she could
only get out, for a whiff of fresh air.
she lets her hair down every day and waits, for a prince, or a dragon, anything at all
but waiting is a sentence without a full stop
endless. her hair is a tangled mess now,
brittle at the ends. soaked in the rain,
so she goes back to sleep, conjures up a world of lost joys and pain,
a world where the dragon has been slain.
Aishee is an undergraduate student of literature. She spends most of her time reading books, scribbling poetry and strumming tunes on the ukulele.