by Anindita Sarkar
bitter lemon
A chopper showers flower petals; it’s a day with abundant
sunshine. As his eyes adjust to the sunlight, he sees his ten-year-old invalid
son sitting on the stone bench. He gets up from his shallow bed cracks a quail
bird's egg and drinks it raw.
The spring leaves faintly whirl giving him a gentle chill.
A lupine slides down the hill listening to the impeccable music of the cicadas.
Sloppy buckets knock each other on the veranda. His wife kneads the bread with
her overworked cracked palms. The food is cooking on the stove. His eyes
unobtrusively travel to hers, reminding them of the times before their wedlock.
A gentle breeze wafts the scent of roses. He has always fantasized about this
kind of life.
The cows are glued to each other in the meadow, it is the
rutting season, physical distancing is not a necessity for them. The television
in the drawing-room announces, “Bengal men self-quarantine on the tree due to
the absence of spare rooms.”
About the author
Anindita Sarkar is a a Research Scholar from India.
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