Thursday, December 1


When life was finding its way through sinuous alleys, it sat in a perverse corner of a musty linking road shop. Like the yellow orange of sun before it embraces its dark black lover of night.

The yellow bag, keeper of my secrets.

Pieces of jewelry bought in a girlish excitement, the black wallet that buys my retail happiness, already read books with arrows that guide through the pages.

My yellow red bag of girlish joy, retail happiness, already read books.

The khadi fabric that hold a story within the strands. Of gone by times.

They also hold promise.

Promise of lives lived together. The promise to be by my side, khadi of Linking Road against the rest of me.

Promise of rushed breakfasts, cold lunches and foil - packed dinners.

Promise to live through the scorched morning, the air-conditioned afternoons.

Promise of going through rush hours, delayed meetings, cold return journeys, locked apartments. Together.

Promise to be rain- soaked and sun- kissed. Together.

Coarse fabric and not- so- coarse woman on an unknown journey to seek the not- sought- truth.

An alliance forged by a transaction of 110 bucks.

A bargained relationship.

On an unceremonious trip, an aimless journey.

Blindfolded by unpredictability, exalted by possibilities.

My yellow bag and the rest of me.