The rivers have forgotten their way home. There is rain.
Do you ever wonder why I never ask you to spell out my name? I like the way it tastes in your mouth. The sweet of salt estuary. The salt of sweet moonmilk. Mud creeks squelch in delirium.
Let me craft you a boat.
This is mirage and wetland. Deep green puppets slither behind shadows, their voices raspy with isolation. I know you hate crocodiles. I hate them too. And I hate how you outline your trees and horizons with your egg-headed crayon. You must always let your paints bleed, percolate down to the underbelly of the paper. Tell me now, must I draw you a map back home?
The mangroves awkwardly stick their roots out to breathe. Tides swell higher. You turn the map around, pretend to read coordinates, and crash in into my homeless arms, pockets full of infected affection, talking of death and drowning and prettiness.
And before I know, the river has erupted in a blaze. The stillness is metal.
On a side note, Sundarban is one of the earth’s endangered ecological gems. Famous for Royal Bengal tigers, this beguiling maze of mangroves is dissected by raging rivers and demure creeks. Visit it before climate changes wipe it off the face of our planet. To know more, read The Land of Man-Eating Tigers: Why you MUST visit Sundarban.