The Dessert of a Memory
Tuhin Bhowal
A gingery December morning splinters at the knee's cry for aid like a muezzin's first call to prayer. Another arid affair with the red ball marks another failed score. Another loss, another scar. At the marble-mosaicked veranda, sitting on the stairs a case of three
or
four
wails burst eardrums, travels swifter than the speed of sound welcoming the advent of relief — an ointment. Why play so hard? I want to win. Disappointment rolls off the tongue as oil spreads on skins. The wound is washed as the clot reveals itself like a peach's bad bruise upon its first bite. The best plum chutneys are seasoned without any sugar, The voice imitates a boisterous politician at the hour of election. Some fruits are just too sour. 48
Yours Truly
