Amour, Time behaves differently around you; the way trees are around the time autumn comes around. Or how rowdy schoolboys turn into dulcet-toned sweethearts around the geography teacher who’s a dead ringer for Rita Hayworth. Time is not time around you. It is an imposter. Around you, time does not move like the staid tick […]
Your beauty, your smile – like a piece of the sun, Your laughter thick as cream. Days endured I wait for you like an unanswered prayer.
Between the words of I and love and you, missing and kissing. In between the thousand and one cities; yours and mine. Caesuras of longing belonging, turning returning. Paused, not broken. A moment. A sigh. Exhale. I pick up where you left off. We are unbroken / We are unbroken.
Flour-kissed skin. Mouths run dry. My blood flips.
To speak and be heard. To tell, to give, to share, and await expectation of coming upon newness. To feel the breath of another upon my cheek. To touch skin. To connect with all that is beyond living; alive. I miss everything I never used to think about before. To dirty my hands with the […]
Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi is an Indian author. His debut novel The Last Song of Dusk (2004) won the Betty Trask Award (UK), the Premio Grinzane Cavour in Italy, and was nominated for the IMPAC Prize in Ireland. Translated into 16 languages already. He has written a much thought provoking piece here on why labourers are […]
The longing for you is almost holy. Warm you sleep; your eyelids closing are the night coming for me. Inescapable love of lives, my lingering ache is the origami crane tucked in your breast. Doing undoing wills and possibilities: with each breath, life raises itself and with every exhale it returns. As it is with all […]
So much time has passed since I’ve seen you. Still, the memory of you remains an ever-fixed mark on all I see. The image of your face recalls itself, with delicately woven fibres, patterning the windows in my house and the frozen glimpses in hallways, pathways, byways. I can’t look at my own face in the mirror […]
No more songs for all you fools, broken-hearted and twice innocent. The ones yet too unripe to know what awaits you. The living years of loving are mostly futile and will end in disappointment and cold tea. Didn’t they tell you? You too will grow weary of what little the world offers by way of […]
Fewer books, and only those which hit that hard-to-find sweet spot. Books that lay back basking in your mind not unlike satisfied lovers on crumpled bedclothes. Fewer friends, but deeper connections. Fewer relationships; grander love, greater passion, incontinent desire. Less buying, more giving. Less impatience, less intolerance, and less apathy. Here’s to less.