"Sequitur"

By Ayan Chakraborty

Conversations live within him.

Juiced upon tongues, picking his brain at the seventeenth hour of the day.

Such twilights are slow. Slower than the time he takes to recall the boy's joy on bright December afternoons under the wool of his

mom's shawl or the lonely play in a make-believe world where Digimons morph into trees.

Those times were ill with certainty.

Sure evenings, surer nights save for the phantom he once believed in ; those which he sees so often around. He talks. He talks more than he wishes to. Just to hear that one sound of prana that he could not find in Dubarray's album.

Voices drift, dig and dissemble.

Boots throb madly as the heart.

The drops hide behind LED lights before Delhi sheds a few more degrees.

By Ayan Chakraborty