Delhi is cloaked in dust. It is not as hot as it is supposed to be today. It’s mild. It’s pleasant. But I cannot go out because it is difficult to breathe. Dust all around – hazy. It’s a perfect morning then – to remain inside and think about all that has transpired. The remains of a winter – the smell of a lover – lingering in the clothes she left behind. Forgotten. By the bed, on the floor.

It’s hard to believe it’s the end of April. Already? This year sure is in a haste! Ah, it’s all been a whole lump of forgetfulness. Indistinctness. A year almost half baked. Half burnt.

Winter is far.

The remains of a winter

The remains of a winter