Four Clover Life- By Namrata Shailendra Singh

  Before I forget to tell you, I have decided not to participate in the Ganpati celebrations this year nor host Thanksgiving dinner. I need time to grieve. I thought we all needed it, or time to ponder, and reflect, and absorb what the pandemic made us experience. It was nothing short of a massacre last year. Everywhere you move, there are inescapable reminders that the pandemic is not yet over, and even if it was, it has scarred us in ways that would take years to heal, if not forget. Do we inspire so little emotion in each other as a community that we have ceased to care about loss? If it’s not mine, then have I lost anything? Society’s debauchery and superfluousness appal me. Our memories are short-lived. We get over too soon. We are desperate to celebrate; without the razzle-dazzle, is there anything to live, I wonder. The show must go on; the show must go with pizazz.  Since I cannot afford the panache, I will hermit myself close to you. The world will not stop by to notice my a

  My therapist feels uncomfortable about my obsessive-compulsive routine of cleaning . A month back, I survived a squeaky clean bathroom slip all because I wanted to get the last strand of cobweb out from the right-most corner of the ten feet high ceiling. My elbow suffered a hairline fracture, and I am currently on anti-inflammatory pills. It alleviates the pain; however, something in my heart continues to ache. I have found a home remedy for it- ripe mango with soaked flattened rice- aam chura - just the way you fed me from an old steel bowl for morning breakfast during summer vacation at granny’s place in the village. The first morsel is enough to palliate the suffering; however, it’s when I peel the whole mango and bite into it with juices trickling down my fingers to arms and dripping off the elbows, forming small mango juice puddle on the kitchen floor, that I finally see you. Once I even licked you off from the vinyl floor. You tasted sweet- mango sweet. Later, the demon in my h

You don't have a mental disorder; you are not on Prozac or Alprazolam, and you definitely don't hallucinate except when you notice your body suddenly start to extend, much to your trepidation. Your arms, your hair, your legs, and your face, as you see in VFX movies, turn and twist, curl, and coil agonizingly into a faint chestnut brown creature, not just a creature, a fully formed Scorpion. You look at yourself in the mirror aghast as tears make an all too familiar entry into your eyes accompanied by a deep pinching pain, the same kind when your parents refused to buy you a pack of crayons, a pair of new school shoes, the gungroo for your dance class, the five-star chocolate. Mind you, they were not desires you could blow away like the fluffy head of the dandelion. They were necessities; in the absence of which the teachers unleashed a volley of words so acidic, it forced you to steal- you see, you can either beg, borrow, or steal. The first two alternatives being non-existe

There are two people you want dead right now-except one is already dead, but you want her to die again. A more painful one- like being pushed off the cliff and down she goes into the deep blue waters of the Pacific. She doesn't know how to swim, and that makes the climax more interesting to you. And for him, you want a cook's knife and his skin. You don't have a mental disorder; you are not on Prozac or Alprazolam, and you definitely don't hallucinate- except when you find the scorpions crawling over your body. Their tiny legs like needles, more like arrows, poking at your crows' feet, your armpits, your collar bones, and then a sharp poke, like some pesky jumping cholla on your breast, stinging your nipples. You frantically seek the scorpion, only to find him in a faraway land in the Chinatown storytelling center or the Bloedel Conservatory, raising two girls now entering puberty. You wish(don't lie, it's more like a curse) the girl's scorpions who pi

                           It’s a busy morning, the kind where you stuff your mouth with french toast, dark golden, more burnt than cooked, leaving a smoky flavor, or that is what I say to you- it’s a kimchi grilled cheese sandwich, baby, just enjoy. You smile at me before gulping the coffee in one long swallow. Before you dash to the door, you make sure to leave some smokiness on my lips and inside my mouth too.  I blush, my heart spends most waking moments marinating in your thoughts and sleeping moments caramelized after our soft, tender lovemaking, the kind where the skin starts to melt and turn gooey like mozzarella enveloped in sweet brioche. We are in love, I am certain. That day we make a baby in the tiny galaxy of my womb.  It’s a busy afternoon, and we both are at work. We are both poring over our screens in our respective cubicles and then a ping on our friends' group chat- somebody has sent a love quote with three red hearts and a couple of Ws after an A. It reads -'

                 It starts when you are thirteen or fourteen, and sitting on the hard triangular seat of the red bicycle makes your crotch tingle. You move uncomfortably ( more like rubbing it hard there)and feel electricity race through your body. Soon you start liking the hard conical seat.  You like the bathroom mirror too, the one that tilts down, and how your body makes you feel: sexy. The unblemished skin, the curves, the two sweetest cherry tomatoes on your chest, and when your father knocks on the door, you set the mirrors straight, slip into your clothes, and vanish. At school, you meet people, the ones you call BOYS, and you realize you like almost everyone. EVERY SINGLE ONE.  However, the broad chests attract you the most, and you wish to be saved by them, to be your knight in shining armor, to save you from some fictitious torment of life and become yours forever and love you like princesses are loved. You listen to songs(strictly Bollywood) that encourage you to think ab

September is an impish month when summer and autumn play cat and mouse. One time a dollop of hot glow, another time, a dash of cool breeze. In the half-asleep morning, I teeter myself to the stove to make tea - a brown liquid in a brown ceramic pan, sweetened with brown sugar and just then, it goes- the electricity. I stand still, stare, blink and wonder how to jumpstart the morning when the battery has died? The body moves, but the brain lingers near the stove, holding the saucepan half filled with water. And so the next two hours go by doing the usual and mundane the one he and I have been doing nonstop for years two unpoised performers filled with exasperation- bathing the children, school uniforms, chobani and bananas, water bottles, and goodbyes. Two hours later, the electricity is back, and I hasten toward the stove Just then, he calls — my husband. He inquires about me and the tea "Common, you anyways had it in office, imagine me," I gripe "It&#