Behind those lush pastures where our child flesh pasted to adult bones never wanes.

There’s a house riddled with numberless examinations and tests.

Yesterday, when my mother told me that relationship is metaphoric to love, I twigged…

Why she felt like a sky. Endless, vast and eternal, festooned with clouds of all colours, of candy floss.

Why birds and butterflies conjured wings. Why flowers and trees sprouted, rayed and soared above. Why seeds bust open the earth.

Why devil takes the hindmost in such dynamics…

Why when love calls it doesn’t feel like withering scorn.

When the walls are riddled with ridicules and no one tends the garden, no one waters the plants, the house is reduced to ashes. When you gift Malheur, bonafide gaieties die away.

But there was still that endless and unfathomable azure depth lying above our head, inadvertently plucking us from our mezzanine balconies, barreling us away to another dimension, to another dream of love…

Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is a mother of two lovely kids and hails from the northeastern town of India Gorakhpur. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures with her kids.

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