Freckle

Freckle

The rain was unflinching; through the bus window. The old North Calcutta houses went past. Sometimes, there was nothing like a cool Calcutta breeze. It hit at me, curled in a waltz on my face, and made itself comely all of a sudden, and left a sensation right at the corner of my lower lip. It felt like a freckle; and as the bus went forward, crushing the shallow death cries out of shallow puddles on the road, the freckle was suddenly unbearable. Calcutta isn’t just a city of palaces, it is a city of memories. 
So… the freckle. The sesame that tasted sweet. Sweet… yes… so that was a curious case of a freckle, which, in Bengali, has the same word as sesame, and which makes a delicious sweet here. So, it was a red madder, and it vanished in and out under the lips of the girl. I didn’t know if the action was voluntary on her part. But it was totally involuntary on my part, that I went crazy.
Nothing more… let the rain play the sonata… 
and let me play out her void... by making those movements, by those drawls, by those utterly, insanely intimate moments that weren't there in place.

 

Reviews

[@JenniferNicholeAuthor]

Koushik I believe if you continue to practice and read and practice and read and read read read, you will take that natural talent to leave a lingering essence and be a very interesting writer.

[Koushik Sen]

Thanks Jennifer :) this isn't actually a story, but an extract from one... m glad you felt like that :)