Order this writing in the collection book Breaking Silences available for only 1650 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Tender
Abhijit Nagaraj
There is a something-watt light bulb, and it is coughing.
If there was a window, and if you were closely watching, this flickering, you would think
you were looking at a silent film in a deserted theater.
She is a something-years-old woman on a squeaky bed
and she is watching an old movie.
(It is about a round-bellied tribe that roasts and sacrifices souls in a big fire pit.
She is eating butter popcorn from a bag, which
she microwaved the wrong side up. She drops fat crumbs everywhere,
and the bag is nearly hollow. It retains its shape, though.
I’m a little boy squatting outside her door, on a bearded
foot rug. A few hours before, she left a microwavable soul
on the elevator, by accident I think, and I try to
squeeze it under her door, so she can have it.
I know she’s always looking for it when she’s getting ready for work
in the morning.