“I don’t drive because I am an angry driver.”
Says my uncle while shifting gears. I close
my eyes, try hard to remember a happy
memory hanging on a stiff line of sunshine,
smelling of detergent instead of the darkness
behind the garage door, smoke and death.
Here, imagine playing car through the shades
and sun, making a mess of the memories,
soiling the drapes. “Be the brightness.
Be the brightness.” I catch my uncle murmur
while wheeling the old Fiat. I cannot guess
how he has arrived to this from the first gear.
Perhaps he meant this when he mentioned
about his mad driving. We take a bend.
I smell beans, jasmine and dog. A hip-hop
jogger, startled by our car that zigzags, curses.
Where are we going again? We go. We all do.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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