Creative
The two sat side by side, cross-legged, at the dining table, their presence quietly mirroring
one another. A cloth threaded with maroon and gold paisleys, bought from a market stall
across from home, softened the surface. Its weave was fine enough that the dark teak grain
seemed to breathe beneath it. Small brass bowls shimmered under the soft glow of a
hanging lamp, each one filled with pickles and chutney, their aromas mingling with the scent
of incense still lingered in the air.
“Asha, eat with your right,” Father murmured, hastily shovelling in his last mouthful of rice.
The grains stuck slightly to his stubbled cheek as he rose from his seat with the familiar
scrape of wood against tile. Asha’s eyes wandered at her father’s motionless presence,
hunching slightly over the sink.
The tap ran, unnoticed, streaming like a silken rope of silver under the flickering kitchen light.
But he wasn’t washing anything. His hands were still. In one of them, barely visible at first,
he held a slightly crumpled envelope with ink smudged into soft blue veins that he read
aloud, “It’s time Asha lived with her ma.”
Her head hung low, and in graceful movement, Asha’s hands enveloped around the warmth
of her silver tumbler of spiced chai her father brewed. The steam rose in delicate spirals, yet
the heaviness of the room refused to lift such aroma.
“Asha…” Her father’s voice was soft, like a blanket that wrapped around her - comforting,
protective, and sure.
"Your Pati once told me about a banyan tree, composed of strong, brown beams that grew
between two rivers. It never chose a side—how could it, when its roots were anchored in the
soil of both. One bank - restless with wind and rain, the other bathed in a relentless sun that
dried even the grass below. Yet the tree grew—its bark thickened with time, as if both
imbalances—wind and sun—had conspired to grant the tree a quiet resilience, and in its
stillness, a strength neither side could claim alone."
Months Later
"As Asha reached for her blanket, she paused, arrested by the earth-toned warmth of spices
that had been replaced by distant notes of vinegar, something sweet, something scorched.
Still, she followed them. Asha’s anklets gave the softest chime as she made her way into the
cramped living room where blonde hair, bathed in the warm glow of the morning light stood
at the stove.
“...Should add chilli,” Asha’s father uttered, eyes fixed on the pot of gravy.
With her knuckles whitening at the clench of the spatula, she implored, “Give me a chance,
Asha might like my pastries.”
Mum and Dad were volatile, inevitable, and painfully close —like fire and oil on the same
stove. A line from The Yellow Wallpaper came to mind—something about patterns only one
The two sat side by side, cross-legged, at the dining table, their presence quietly mirroring
one another. A cloth threaded with maroon and gold paisleys, bought from a market stall
across from home, softened the surface. Its weave was fine enough that the dark teak grain
seemed to breathe beneath it. Small brass bowls shimmered under the soft glow of a
hanging lamp, each one filled with pickles and chutney, their aromas mingling with the scent
of incense still lingered in the air.
“Asha, eat with your right,” Father murmured, hastily shovelling in his last mouthful of rice.
The grains stuck slightly to his stubbled cheek as he rose from his seat with the familiar
scrape of wood against tile. Asha’s eyes wandered at her father’s motionless presence,
hunching slightly over the sink.
The tap ran, unnoticed, streaming like a silken rope of silver under the flickering kitchen light.
But he wasn’t washing anything. His hands were still. In one of them, barely visible at first,
he held a slightly crumpled envelope with ink smudged into soft blue veins that he read
aloud, “It’s time Asha lived with her ma.”
Her head hung low, and in graceful movement, Asha’s hands enveloped around the warmth
of her silver tumbler of spiced chai her father brewed. The steam rose in delicate spirals, yet
the heaviness of the room refused to lift such aroma.
“Asha…” Her father’s voice was soft, like a blanket that wrapped around her - comforting,
protective, and sure.
"Your Pati once told me about a banyan tree, composed of strong, brown beams that grew
between two rivers. It never chose a side—how could it, when its roots were anchored in the
soil of both. One bank - restless with wind and rain, the other bathed in a relentless sun that
dried even the grass below. Yet the tree grew—its bark thickened with time, as if both
imbalances—wind and sun—had conspired to grant the tree a quiet resilience, and in its
stillness, a strength neither side could claim alone."
Months Later
"As Asha reached for her blanket, she paused, arrested by the earth-toned warmth of spices
that had been replaced by distant notes of vinegar, something sweet, something scorched.
Still, she followed them. Asha’s anklets gave the softest chime as she made her way into the
cramped living room where blonde hair, bathed in the warm glow of the morning light stood
at the stove.
“...Should add chilli,” Asha’s father uttered, eyes fixed on the pot of gravy.
With her knuckles whitening at the clench of the spatula, she implored, “Give me a chance,
Asha might like my pastries.”
Mum and Dad were volatile, inevitable, and painfully close —like fire and oil on the same
stove. A line from The Yellow Wallpaper came to mind—something about patterns only one
