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Authored by
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Sharanya Manola  
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25/09/2009 10:50:00 
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Fresco
 
 
 
I can taste red. It’s the blush on the
cheeks. Gift wrapped in a ribbon. Blood of a love-struck.
Warring armies.

I can taste the greens. The sugar-coated
pores. The aroma that fumes out when
the dew sediments. The groves beneath which the
beetles sleep. The rope that was a delight for
swinging kids.

I can taste the brown. The earth that kisses it
on the bark. Termites which poison and
leave the ashes behind. The sofa which sits
25 years old. The stick with which mama
used to scold.

I can taste violet of the pansies their edible, minty
Rum. The flower lace that adorned the princess’
wrists. The fading spring when they bid
good-bye. The sobs of the butterflies.

I can taste the white. Basmati rice that float on
the kheer. Linen in the black dress. The humility of
the gladiolus. Blanket of ice covering the sod.

I can taste yellow. Slimy juice of mangoes. Wild spectrum
sneaking from behind the curtain. Crescent shine of turmeric.
The life of a half-born yolk.

I can taste blue. The mark on the thigh. Melancholy of my
Labrador. Of Mom’s eyes on her doll’s wedding night.
Muddy Waters.

I can taste black. Soot in an anonymous chimney. The vacuum of
space. A pool of kohl in pair-of-eyes. The black world
for a blind.

I can taste crimson. The frock I wore when I was five. The fragrance of
fragile petals. Gleaming nail enamel. Plump strawberries in
water.

I can taste orange. Glucose after gym. Dhotis that saints
wear. Friction within fire. Flirtations with horizon.

12:12 , Saturday- 15th August 2009
 

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