Neera had a curious way of tying her hair. They weren’t messy but you wouldn’t call them tidy either. A brown bun, wispy strands  flickering. Summer buzzing.

          One would often find her tending to her plants. Brewing her green sorbet . She would pluck the leaves like there was a mathematics behind it and shove them all in a jar. Then drop a slimy liquid along the translucent rim. And it all started to pop. Burgundy cracking and tiny swirls of snail-like bob leaves. And the green sorbet was ready.

            She would then tap her feet and walk back inside. Shut the wood behind her. Acrylic seasons yelling. The inside of the house swirled like an elongated safety pin. Silver and wobbly. And the shelves dispersed a rosewater incense into the air, making it soft and porous. You could almost penetrate the molecules. Except, of course, you couldn’t.

            Neera would dispose her plastic gloves and set the new jar on a blue marble shelf. An entire row of incandescent forest bulbs. A  slice of a pixie lawn. The tablecloth would morph into a shadow & light mosaic, ancient and reverberating.

         It was an old habit of hers, amidst few others. Neera was a collector. Collectors collect, steal and take. However, Neera had her principles straight. She only took what was free. As a girl, Neera had always been afraid of the semantics of time. (How it kept slipping . An incessant, crawling monster.) She often wondered if she could freeze it. Superconductors maybe ?

           The night Samarth had poured his green eyes into hers. Talked of Beatles, bonfire, and lust. That was on the list. Or when mother bought her that first chapbook from the store. Greasy, with red embroidery and tailing borders. So she stocked her house with digital prints and rainbow coloured memories. She felt for nature. How people took no notice of the gifts anymore. So she took the soil, spoons into spoons and made heaps in her jars.

           Neera’s house is a memoir. So is she. A drifting current locked in the interstices. She is alone. She has been for a while now. Neera took the life she once thought she had and sewed into jars and frames. Nothing wrong with that. She only wanted to keep a tab on things. It slightly meddles with her head now. Trying to count the uncountable things.

            Still, there is no denying that Neera is an impeccable collector . She collected pieces of herself and labelled them. Now the pieces don’t know each other and don’t talk very much. But they do chime ever so slightly when the wind knocks at them. You could almost hear them humming the rhyme that isn’t.

©Aakriti Kuntal

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4 thoughts on “The Clumped bowl

  1. Damn.💕 What a fine piece of writing! I must say Aakriti, I’m impressed by your ability to paint these intriguing images with your words. Remarkable would be an understatement.

    But I’m truly curious, what drives you to write, Miss Kuntal? Is it inspiration, motivation or just an enormous amount of imagination?

    I don’t know if you engage with fellow bloggers and like to have conversations. But I for one would surely appreciate an audience with you, it would make for some rather interesting conversations I’m sure.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you Advaita for reading and that lovely appreciation 🙂 Your words bring me great joy…I guess it is a medley of inspiration and crazy amounts of imagination 😀 🙂 .. I would love to engage in more delightful conversations with you 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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