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An ode to November

November dips jalebis in kheer And debates the origin of rosgollas With friends wearing saffron sweaters,...

An ode to November by Shriti Chowdhary

November dips jalebis in kheer
And debates the origin of rosgollas
With friends wearing saffron sweaters,
Rolls of flour are kneaded
To crown the biryani handi
Cheetahs draw freckles
With henna and hibiscus oil
Shiuli droops towards an orange
To dye her petals tangerine
A tired frog uses dew drops
as homegrown toner
Gandhraj brews a potion
So lemony
Bees chug down goblets of it, moaning
‘ts nectar, ‘ts nectar, ‘ts nectar
Newly married ants
Shell pea from pods
Caterpillars built sandcastles
In cauliflowers trampled
Squirrels skateboard
On mum’s wedding rajai
Laid out on the terrace
An old spider is whisked away
to a marigold field,
He renews his vows,
That of a single father
Spinach leaves air marshall
butterflies cruising the dark sky
November houses centuries of letters
That never made it to our doorsteps
Lovers visit this Dalhousie cornerstone
To breathe in the parched ink
And kiss under the bell tower
Morgue of Mails, they call it,
Yet the forgotten live more freely
Than December’s festivities ever could.

We're too soiled with the notion of love

There are caterpillars in my mother’s gajra crawling towards her ears while all she feels are my dad’s iron deficient nails burying in her ill-fitted blouse. *Hanahaki will flower both our coffins, we’re too soiled with the notion of love to ever perceive it.

I flashed god in Ikea, he built a modular queen size bed for us in heaven.
Public indecency birthed him, now he jerks to the naked grandeur, shaming his children for the exhibitionism.

If everyone spoke language in the way it was intended to be vocalized, it would descend into the realm of mathematics. There is no right way to say his Irish name with my Devanagari tongue. My stutter is the art that resins our differences.

Desire is the prison mate that plans the entire day to hang himself when the cell light dims, only to be distracted by the magazines he hid the rope under. Pages unfold the sickening pleasure, almost making him too weak to stand on that chair.

It saves what you want to kill and destroys everything you frantically hold on to.

Photograph by Vikrant Karande
Author avatar
Shriti Chowdhary
November 29, 2021
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