My First Short Story at B’khush.com: Let Me Not to The Marriage of True Minds

lovers-hands

Image source: Rebellesociety.com

How do you define love in your lives? Has it been a temporary sickness, an epidemic that has followed you ever since you have known your senses, your being? Is there a love interest, an unrequited one that has haunted you in your later life? Do you believe in the language of pristine love that binds you all your life, no matter what the circumstances of your life do to you?

It is a pleasure to share my first full-length short story published at www.bkhush.com, “Let Me Not To the Marriage of True Minds”, where my protagonists ask themselves questions regarding the true nature and essence of love. A triangular love story based in Kolkata, India, a wayward journey of memories, nostalgia, pain and attachment that binds Sukanya, Aniruddha and Ayan together. Hope the readers will enjoy exploring the journey.

http://www.bkhush.com/dev/content/scattered-pearls-let-me-not-marriage-true-minds

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Indian Summer

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Pic credit: Lopa Banerjee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If some day, I could weep the furnished warmth of your tears,

If some day, my own tears could speak with yours,

Radiant blue, opaque, like the tinsel-hued shore of our childhood days.

 

If our furtive, emaciated tears

could meet in dusty, forsaken doorways,

Ripple and flow, kicked off by the dust of melancholy melodies.

If some day, our tears meet in a wind-drifting trail, lead us

Through mossy courtyards, bumpy, narrow alleys, barking dogs

Stumbling over the curb to the shoreline of our last summer days,

If some day, our tears meet and run over the mirror lake

Dissolve in it in a myth of tenderness, in a high tide night,

The world around us, dark, clingy, tossed with the

Dead wind of our palms, our tears running away

From the narrow strip of the human landscape.

 

I would have made myself at home with your tears,

Be the child again, bursting wide, plundering your open wounds

With my very own, run over with you, hand in hand

Stumbling over random houses,

Crickets, the chocolate brown of our sweat,

Where we had once tripped, in the dark.

 

Copyright: Lopa Banerjee. October 28, 2014