19.7.21 — monsoon day
outside my bedroom: through the rectangle of window above my door: light. flickering.
mama said it needs to be worn out completely before we can replace it, so that is what we are doing. wearing the light out. i wonder how light dies: does it flicker less often, with less intensity? does it fluctuate rapidly until it leaves one, final, strengthened luminance? or does its last attempt remain unnoticed, until, one evening, mama finds it completely worn out?
i like to think that’s not what mama wants from me. but even the monsoons have been unpredictable this year, and the traffic hasn’t stopped, here, where i sit: by the long window diagonally opposite the rectangular one above my door. eating the breath monsoon gives me.
i think the light has stopped flickering.
By Yuvana Sahi
Image credits: Ágoston Menyhért Horányi
