I fell ill in Delhi under a very different December sun and dreamt of severed heads in a line on the window sill as I drifted in and out of consciousness. And the maroon flowers on the white bedsheet on which I lay also rose up and floated away. Everything felt heightened or hazy or just mixed up. My temperature shot up like never before. My mother, suitably alarmed, took the seven hour bus ride to be by my side. The doctor said it was viral fever. Could also be the pollution. Could be many things. He wasn’t completely sure. Maybe, my body realised how clueless and unanchored I was here (away from the mountains) before the rest of me did.
About the Author Ronita Chattopadhyay finds refuge in words. She is lucky to make a living out of it while working with not for profit/non government organizations in India. She started sharing her poetry with the world more recently and is excited to see where this journey with words takes her. Her poems have appeared in The Hooghly Review and Roi Fainéant Press and Howard University's Power: An Ode to BIPOC Excellence. She can be found on Twitter @ronita_c.
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