INDI A

SINGAPORE

M A L AY S I A

Notion Press Old No. 38, New No. 6 McNichols Road, Chetpet Chennai - 600 031 First Published by Notion Press 2020 Copyright © Iris 2020 All Rights Reserved. ISBN 978-1-64805-974-2 This book has been published with all efforts taken to make the material error-free after the consent of the author. However, the author and the publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. While every effort has been made to avoid any mistake or omission, this publication is being sold on the condition and understanding that neither the author nor the publishers or printers would be liable in any manner to any person by reason of any mistake or omission in this publication or for any action taken or omitted to be taken or advice rendered or accepted on the basis of this work. For any defect in printing or binding the publishers will be liable only to replace the defective copy by another copy of this work then available.

DEDICATION To Liza, who shared the room with me while listening to BTS and Beethoven. Furthermore, to every and each who found shelter in the solemn nights.

CONTENTS Acknowledgements7 Prologue9 Chapter 1: Red Carnation 11 You13 Venus17 Butterfly Effect  19 Muse21 Infinity of Things 23 Chapter 2: White Lily 25 Midnight27 White29 Acedia  33 An Ode to the Night 35 Conversations39 Chapter 3: Daffodil 41 Summer42 Rain45 Autumn47 Winter51 Spring55 Chapter 4: Smeraldo  57 Masquerade59 Auction61 Cherry  63 Tsukuyomi65 The Room 69 Epilogue71 About the Author 73 Contents | 5

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I owe the privilege of publishing this book to a few very special people in my life. Firstly, my parents and my uncle and aunt for supporting me. My lovely friend, Sarthak who, with his brilliant talent, conceptualized the essence of the book exquisitely for the cover. I owe a great amount of gratitude to Arafat and Aditi also, for capturing such beautiful shots for every piece. Of course, the book wouldn’t have been complete without Apoorva, who was there from the beginning itself, helping me in ways more than one, be it modelling, editing, and taking awful pictures of me throughout. Lastly, the final muse of my book, shout out to you, sir. 

Acknowledgements | 7

PROLOGUE An artist simply lives through. Every inch that I have crafted, nonetheless, shall breathe of my vestige, long after my hands be one with dirt.

Prologue | 9

CHAPTER 1: RED CARNATION

YOU A bench where I sat drenched in the rain; across the road, you walked all the same. Your silhouette eclipsed in the fog. If we touch our hands at the crossing will it be destiny? No, I am too afraid to touch you and burn. This desire should stifle inside me. You gaze at the setting sun. I, only regard you. A sigh escapes my mouth, and a gasp at your celestial look. A mirror won’t reflect. You don’t seem beautiful. You are dark, like the blank canvas that grasps the moon. Every day you pass by, haggard, your hair a mess and a cigarette in your hand. In words, I imagine the eddy universe, in your mind that colours you mad. The fall is here and it is subtle. I see you hanging by a thread. You will shatter and blow your brains out. Even spring will stench of death. I can’t fathom this fascination. My cold breath, do they reach you? The path you tread on, where does it take you? I am no lover but, my eyes are accustomed to yours. I trace every dull curve in you, Iris | 13

and how your body mourns. The snow thaws now, and the ice melts like insipid kisses. The bench is unknown to my warmth now. The path, unfamiliar to your footprints. I guess you were a flicker. From a candle, a trivial shadow. I was blaring chaos, that flowed to you, void, just as hollow. Now, these lines are only where you be. I lay these pages open, like my empty palms, facing the sky. They all smell like blood and my dreams where you visit often.

14 | Letters to the Blue Moon

Letters to the Blue Moon At the fork road, The old symphonies lay rotten. An ode to the wailing of none. Hushed whispers of old breeze, Resounded the path, Like the bloody water drowning the sun. Bleed step by step. Howl, but don’t make a noise. ’Twas the silent moon.

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