I found a home between the seconds,
where silence stitched the air with threadless gold,
no clock, no couch, no clamor of the labeled—
only wind, folding itself into itself,
like thought before it knows it’s thinking.
There, the mirrors melted.
I traded shelves for shadows,
souvenirs for the scent of mangoes left to sun,
and the screen’s cold hum
for the eye of a crow circling thrice
before vanishing into sky’s own skin.
My sandals slept by the banyan.
My name became unsyllabled.
The garden whispered of things not planted—
a coin-sized moon blooming in water bowls,
terracotta dreams, cracked but breathing,
as though loss were a door
and I had dared to knock.
Plastic gods with plastic faces,
I once bowed before your multiplicities,
offered rupees, pixels, praise.
Now I listen to the silence
between chimes in the wind,
and learn that hunger too
has its own kind of fullness.
Every object I shed
became a kite unspooled from the hand,
dancing not to escape
but to remember
what the tether forgot.
A spoon, a song,
a single robe smelling of neem—
these are enough
when the world itself
wears no makeup.
Why chase the dragon of “more”?
Its wings are made of receipts.
Its fire smells like plastic wrapped in purpose.
I sleep on the breath of floorboards,
sip cloudlight steeped in copper pots.
I walk slower now—
even my shadow seems less hurried.
Let them fill their homes with things.
Let them count stars like stock.
I will fold into moments like saffron in warm milk,
invisible,
infused,
free.