The Creative Section (Vol. 5, No. 1) is on its way and will be published by the end of May, 2024.




- Priya Narayanan (India)

I open my fist one last time

and stare at the fine lines

that lay concealed,

embedded into the story of me.

One line traverses the village

(of memories)

where I stand at the edge of a lotus pond

gazing at my reflection: a child

amidst entangled roots.

One line meanders through the alleyways of a city

where life and livelihood sit

at the far ends of an ebony bench

and I sit somewhere in between –

shifting, shuffling, suspended in motion.

One line curves round the corner called love:

you do not need to see to know

what happens beyond. A pregnant sigh

escapes me. One line unspools

into a long string that flies a kite.

The wind that makes the kite dance

is my breath. As I inhale and exhale

exhale and inhale, a thousand other strings

unspool to criss-cross the sky

above my open palm. But these strings

do not bear kites; they bear bluebirds

tied by their tails: tweeting, tittering,

teetering, tiring.

A thing of beauty loses its freedom for ever.

One line traces the outline of a slate.

I can see a line forming a ‘C’, yet another

forms an ‘I’. A few drunken lines collide

to form an ‘A’ and an ‘R’. A fine threesome

forms an ‘H’… I pull out a chair

and sit down my weary bones.

As the lines close in on me, I open

my tired eyes just in time to catch one line

rushing across my palm:


a river in a hurry to meet the sea.