Archive for the ‘writings’ Category


Art by Frank Godwin

image: frank godwin

the western sky
clutches the white
heat of the sun.
the last of the season’s
leaves cling to the umber-
shelled young tree.
is that the breeze
agitating a leaf
into a spiral fall?
no, a roller
a flutter of blues
belonging to wild spirits.
on a lower branch,
a droplet of hummingbird.
floating overhead,
long-tailed parakeets.
further and alone,
a hawk on a hunt,
wings frozen in a wave,
skimming, the sky its sea.

© Anuradha Prasad 2020


osmosis of the soul

image: via pinterest

we are the silence stirred

we leap dance vibrate
we scream lie break

tired, jaded
we begin

the seeking
of a place without space
boundaries or names
the silence that we are
that we never stopped

gentle, gentle
our journey begins
fragmenting again
entering its womb
our edges blurring
centers merging
sparks flying

deep, deep
we diffuse
there is only
that which is





© Anuradha Prasad 2020

On Instagram:

blueberry fields forever

My short story, “Blueberry Fields Forever,” is published on Literally Stories. Grateful to the editors for publishing it and for their encouragement. The story was part of collection of short stories called Confluence, which I completed early last year.

Read it here –

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

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Entwicklung des Fötus & Embryo - Wachstumtabellen für Ein- und Zwilinge

image: via pinterest

a love so new
it floated
in embryonic
in a buttercup
its shape still
forming, its heart
its vibrissae
for sulfur-laden
sparks of flint
struck, the

© Anuradha Prasad 2020


image: via pinterest

i am drawing
a map to find
us I don’t know
where i lost you
or why)
where i lost me
or why)

i try to return
where we last were
together when i left
with a colon
a closing bracket
not knowing
we would not
return to each
other in that
white rectangular
space of black
and white glyphs
scented in blush
lines of love
darker strokes
of lust, all of it
now rubbed clean
as if it never was

but it was,
it was us.

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

(written to yoko ono’s “draw a map to find us”)


Posted: February 22, 2020 in Uncategorized, writings
Tags: , , , , ,

image: via pinterest

she turns
her center still,
in an age-old hula
with an invisible hoop.
to her soundless gaze,
concealing her
wild-whispered seeking,
dawn speaks
a languid language
of merlot and gold and
borders smudged.

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

Why dissent FIN

My piece “Why Dissent Is Important to Lead an Authentic Life” is out on Feminism in India. It talks about the role of resistance and dissent in everyday life, as well as nurturing hope during these times.

Follow the link to read it –

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

anuradha prasad

From my unpublished short story collection ‘Confluence’ – which speaks of loneliness and emotional isolation, love and seeking, death and depression, appearances and deceptions, life and art – that i began in 2018 with gili haimovich’s mentorship. It is the first writing project that i actually completed in June 2019 and shared with one or two readers for a generic and broad feedback. Maybe it will get published, maybe it won’t but gladder for finishing what i started.

© Anuradha Prasad 2019


image: via pinterest

It was summer. Of that and only that Mer was sure. It could have been any time of the day but sometimes she put it at noon, other times just before day touched dusk in a game of touch-and-go. The sun was bright and black kites were wheeling in the sky, coasting on air currents.

Mer skipped down the steps, clutching her laundry basket lightly. Too lightly as she found out as the basket slipped and clothes scattered and lay in heaps across pleated steps turning a corner. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she said, stooping to pick up the clothes. Instead she sat down on a step covered with muddy traces of foot prints, now imprinting her bum, rather large, that her grandmother would point at proudly and tell women with appraising eyes, “Now, these here are child-bearing hips.” Mer would demurely stay put waiting for the expanse of her wide hips to register.

He came up the stairs and peered at her from behind brown-rimmed glasses. His hair was spikey, just-mowed grass springing back. There was a strange familiarity in his gaze. Who knows? He may have been a lover, a brother, a husband in a past life. There was comfort in his presence as his feet wove past the strewn clothes and the upturned basket on his way up, he oblivious of the recognition that struck her, intense and urgent.

“Didn’t you feel it?” she asked before she could stop to his receding back that paused and turned around. She was struck by the efficiency with which her spongy brain, lungs, and larynx came together as one. Too efficient, maybe. A shadow of stubble had sprung across his jaws, strong and angular. Her grandmother would have approved. Angular jaws hold a man’s age up, she always said.

“That we know each other,” Mer added.

“I’d think so. You called my wife a whore,” he said.

Something like a memory fluttered its eyes open in the depths of her spongy and too-efficient brain. A thin-hipped pixie woman telling her to watch it. A swaying and belligerent Mer telling her a thing or two or three, whore being one.

His eyes slid down the steps and stopped a little way from her feet.

“You may have been talking about yourself,” he said.

Her eyes followed his. They rested where his eyes rested. A used condom nestled in the cup of her bra. So that is where it had disappeared. Not inside her vagina where it would grow unique flora and do what plastic did to those turtles. Mer would have liked to say something, caustic preferably and sulfur laced. But that bespectacled god was already a blur turning the corner.

Implicated thus, she sat, a buddha, a moment in time, a time in moment. Perspiration bubbled on her forehead and slid down its side, halting and losing momentum too soon. It had been summer. A high-pitched whistle fell in a sharp, straight note as a kite dived. The sky lay bare and blue.

© Anuradha Prasad 2019


image: via pinterest

She was as old as he was new. She watched him jump on the bed, Maria asleep next to him, her form rising up and sinking down at the waist and rising up again before stretching into a long slant. A slant that twitched now and then to the rhythm of a dream. The few drops of milk that were left in his fallen sipper disappeared, seeping into the blanket. A spot, moist and heavy with the smell of sour, its only evidence. He didn’t notice. If he did, it did not matter to him.

She trudged toward the bed just as Maria let out a low snore. Her arthritic knees were creaky. The little boy jumped again, his knees like oiled spring. He bounced. She creaked. She made to grab him.

In the deep recesses of her sleep, Maria heard a loud and surprised squawk of protest, a rising wail that settled into whimpers between a hip and the curve of an arm, whimpers that quieted under a palm, its skin liver-spotted and wrinkled. It was a hand that knew time, a hand that patted its seconds. Time slowed to a stop.

Maria awoke to his tiny body huddled next to her, an expression of mild surprise still etched on his face. In the periphery of slowly returning consciousness, she saw a silver form glide into the twilight that stained the world outside just as a flash of chill exploded in her heart. She blamed it on her sleep-ridden eyes, her wine-addled blood. The clock in the drawing room chimed six times. In the echo of its last chime curved an old smile.

© Anuradha Prasad 2019