Deeya Bhattacharya writes

Tashi’s Revenge

Tashi breathes the mud of magic. The cold windy day translucently blows and his bones rattle against a tepid warmth hardly to be called skin. His life on a raw afternoon, when the wind heads for north, bustling trees quietened to tragedy. The blatant nights and the vindictive air chewed like the end of a cigarette butt ensure nothing. It hangs in the aisle, smug, full of imperfection. On countless nights, when the void breathed and lingered in earth’s womb the Satan pulsated in his veins. His beloved has been crumbled like fear tattooed in the folded layers of an ageing earth, of fallen leaves. His beloved rests in the myriad colours that impregnate the earth while the dewy morning softly croons in the lap of a dusky sky. The confluence of darkness and light. The itch persists. It devours his sanity. Early autumn mornings are a rarity for his insipid self. The distractions in his head quieten. He gurgles and spits out the rawness of his wound. The morning sedates him. In the mornings like these he could love life, an almond skin wrapped around, and Viagra in his blood raged, procreating a hunger for the silk. His intentions became clear and cruel. Now in these mornings he prepared to strike. After all it was justice done, it was the last rites that he could offer to pay to Myla. Her ashes blindfolded Tashi in the newly painted sky of a crimson morning.