Tainted Margins IV

Jaipur: home, childhood and all other things.

Last week, in my city, they asked me what my surname was. One of us, they must have thought. They told us that May 16th will make everything better. Cleaner. That they don’t sell houses to others. That they will sell the house to us. You are like us, they must have thought.

Like us.

It has been twelve years.
Yes. Twelve years.

Nazim Hikmet wrote: In the twentieth century, grief lasts at most a year.

This is the 21st century.
Time is a fan running on high speed.

Jaipur, tainted pink.
Blood has a beautiful colour, I noticed when you died. It takes on a lovely hue when it comes out of someone else’s body.
Tainted. Tainted pink.

You will ask me my name. My name which starts from the opposite end.
I will lie to you and say: I have many names.
I will quote Shakespeare and say: What’s in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
You will smile, perhaps. But you will know that my name starts from the opposite end.

But I know that this is how it will happen. I started from left, you from right. We are writing towards each other. Our scripts will meet. I am writing.