Our corona diary.

[Text and photo by Abhimanyu Raj ]

I close my eyes in self-isolation from corona… and I see yearning, flowing through the ridges of my palms, like cheap olive oil. I see another night and a pair of salty, tear-laced lips. I see desires that smell of cardamom and the rice kheer my mother makes on a full moon night. I see my guitar that reeks of half-played tunes and ill-timed lovers. I see storms that rest at the back of my tongue, tasting of wet wood. I see a late summer evening at the Humayun’s Tomb, with my ears buzzing with Eric Clapton and Mohammad Rafi. I see so much, yet when I reach out, the only thing I find is a steel cold nothing. A “nothing” that seeps through the corners of my walls like fresh warm honey; golden enough to make the setting Sun jealous. And then the tired “nothing” settles on a tattered Murakami that gives me company on the nights when I can’t see anything at all.

“We the Isolationists” series urges folks from any part of the world to share a brief diary starting with “I close my eyes in my self-isolation from Corona… and I see…” Not more than 100 words. With a horizontal-sized selfie, along with your city name… please mail to me at mayankaustensoofi@gmail.com.