My Story

by Kamala Suraiyya Das

was possible for me to love the dead as deeply as I loved the living. I could even go up to the unknown Rosamund and confide in her. From the dead no harshness could emanate, no cruelty...

My grief fell like drops of honey on the white sheets on my desk. My sorrows floated over the pages of magazines darkly as heavy monsoon clouds do in the sky...

With words I had destroyed my life. I had used them like swords in what was meant to be a purification dance, but blood was unwittingly shed.

Silence