Between Continents by Yashodhara Trivedi


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Between Continents

I rally with a wall of clothes –
six layers of Indian cotton turn mush
against the tyranny of an English winter.
My freezing bones are built for a sun plucked clean
from the horizon, winking from the corners
of snapshots parceled across the Himalayas.
I outlive a snowstorm
spooning the heater in a walk-in closet
masquerading as bedroom –
too cold to fall asleep, too tired not to.
The thrill of experience perseveres.
Shuffling around in mismatched socks,
nostrils ablaze with the scent of candles that mimic
the spices in my father’s cooking, I ache
for mustard-hilsa and piping hot jalebis.
Weekdays are for gentle paranoia
manifested in stockpiling – with copious tins
of chicken stew, hot cocoa and herbal tea,
the common cold beats a survivor out of me.
These skills are rendered worthless now,
like farming in a landfill
or hitting jackpot in monopoly.
Weekends turn to drinking games
with chilled mimosas and ice lollies.
My body sinks
in a pool of sweat, all thawing limbs
and glistening chest, slapping away mosquito wings.
Everything reeks of the tropical sun –
my tangled hair, the tie-dyed sheets,
this water bed and browning skin.
When dawn splits open the old skyline,
the crows begin to raise new hell.
I stumble barefoot across the room
and make love to the air-conditioning.



Yashodhara Trivedi

Yashodhara Trivedi is a twenty-three year old from Kolkata, India. She enjoys Buzzfeed videos and modern adaptations of Jane Austen’s novels. Her writing has also been featured in The Rising Phoenix Review.