Quiescence in the eye of storm

By Anamitra Gupta

The air is disconcerting, immovable. So am I; always the one who imitates.

Beads of sweat roll down the column of my throat, in perfect symphony;

With the thunderclouds rolling above, feeling everything, just not able to put it into words

The faint smell of incense dances around, daring me to catch a whiff,

Is it jasmine? No, sandalwood.

Definitely jasmine and impending rain.

I see the head of a little boy, brows furrowed in concentration, through an open window

Are you figuring out something? I want to ask.

Will you teach me?

I'm incapable; in so much more ways than other

Like a deer who's first instinct is always to run

Terrified.

Just then the sky unravels, the eye deciding it's had enough moisture to bear the burden of;

Oh the exultation!

Oh the catharsis!

The air is still, content. So am I; always the one who imitates.

By Anamitra Gupta