by Anindita Sarkar
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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