Due to some technical issue, the October issue (Vol. 3, Issue 2) is to be published either in the last week of November or the first week of December, 2022. Inconvenience is regretted.




- 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.