A boat shaped autumnal leaf knocks the evening window. I open the pane and inhale lungfuls of the crisp breeze.
With each season of the ochre yellows I have begun to resemble the old oak: the parchment skin and sharp increase in the number of grey hair. Earlier, I used to keep a count of those greys, but now they have proliferated beyond the self-undertaken census stage. All the same the grey cells of my brain are functioning like unlubricated cogs, rusty with the monotony of a drab routine.
The other day, I put oil in the wok on a high flame of the gas burner for deep frying and left the kitchen to answer the phone. A few minutes later the pungent smell of smoke fills the house. The flames from the wok were licking the ceiling. I tried to scrub clean whatever could be washed but the white wall putty soaked up the stubborn soot. Deeper it penetrated the surface, the more I attempted to remove it.
I feel aghast each time I enter the black-grey kitchen. In a few days time, perhaps I will get used to it just as one gets used to the lack of love.
the white mark it leaves
on my finger
Yesha Shah lives in Surat, India with her family. Poetry has long since been her passion. She started writing Haiku and allied genres about two years back. Her verses have found place in various online and print journals.