The Layers Within.

By Nishakaru Dkhar

I wonder,

Why is everyone avoiding me?

My presence seems unwanted

Yet visible, and unseen.

Do I dread?

I tend to ponder,

I ate raw onion last night

the scent still linger in my skin,

the pungent smell screams from my mouth

when I speak.

I couldn’t tell.

I will cut an onion again tonight.

I will peel the skin slowly

How peeling the skin of onion can be

a form of finding the truth,

compiling the skins in my palms,

let them drop into the garbage bin.

The release of pent up emotions

as a new wave of sadness and despair

Are you crying?

They would ask.

“You are wearing glasses”

Some would say.

I would exaggerate the magic of onion.

I learnt to be quiet in the kitchen,

even cups sitting silently.

Most days the kitchen smells like citrus,

But tonight, the aromatic onion will fill the room for long.

Give me the strongest onion,

the one that stinks at its best

even the walls will start scrunching.

My knife is waiting to get picked,

Oh! How it lays responsibility to carry

A life to spill.

A blade so sharp

cut the onion deep

its root, its topmost layers

slice it down its sensitive layers

horizontally, vertically

while the onion rest powerless in my hand,

bleeding in onion’s blood,

cutting it into pieces

cooking it in a hot oil

Crackling.

I thought,

Will it create a balance?

A cohesive dish.

Why can not I create something unified?

Like that of an onion,

turning into a melody and frown around.

So, they will listen,

nod and talk.

I will think,

Do I need to cut an onion again tonight?

By Nishakaru Dkhar