• Antara Basu


A bottle of turpentine she kept hidden, behind the glass cabinet;

of her oil canvases, her paint-soaked brushes,

The old blade that lay between the pages of ‘’To Kill A Mockingbird’’

In a way old lover’s hid secret crushes.

But Boo Radley, never did show;

for the blade that carved her skin each night.

Shards of broken mirrors, smashed porcelain,

her mother’s china;

stashed under one of the loose floorboards in her room.

And perhaps, collection runs in the family.

Though she conceals hers, better than her father.

His anthology sans poetry,

Was made, of not words but underage girls.

The sleeping pills she taped under the sink;

stolen from her mother’s dresser.

Delude her reality,

The way her mother uses, under the veil of insomnia.

The anti-depressants in the drawer of her white-collar therapist,

Offer oaths of enticement.

Ergo she smiles; the charade of sanity,

Is one of her favourite plays.

For even Shakespeare never wrote a character,

So worthy of a role.

But an overdose hangs in one of her many hiding places;

the way most sober addicts hide drugs before a relapse.

And a suicide note, lies trapped in Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea.”