by Mandira Pattnaik
Coconut palms rise against the azure infinite, printed with white polka-dots, an ochre yellow kite soars and dives, the silver of a jet glistens, slices your frame, yet there’s a 0.78% chance that it’ll rain in the next hour.
Landscapes drenched, croaks in the puddle, monsoon closing in on your wedding day, dad anxious, mum boisterous, guests swarming the courtyard, jasmine and marigold blending colors and fragrance, priest’s arrived, yet there’s a 5.65% chance your groom will be late.
Marital home, in-laws claiming ownership, husband cheeky, herons skimming over hyacinths in the distance, emotions swirling, you want a vent, you look for an anchor, yet there’s a 29.92% chance you’ll not find one for some time to come.
Guilty about a weekend of books, about that missed call from a childhood friend, about not cooking okra, about not attending your child’s school play, about not giving your best at work, about not spending time with your husband enough, you’re trying your best, yet there’s a 52.34% chance your employer, husband and kids will blame you for mismanaging it.
Paranoid about a life-threatening surgery, you’ll lose your cool, lose loved ones along the way, give up work for family, you might forgive and forget, yet there’s a 99.81% chance that one day, one sunny, rainy or cold day, you’ll feel happy about yourself, about your life, about this journey well-traveled.
Mandira Pattnaik writes poetry and short fiction. Published pieces appear in Eclectica, Lunate, Commuterlit, Runcible Spoon and Door Is A Jar, among others. Work is forthcoming at Brilliant Flash, Cabinet of Heed and Fiction Berlin. She tweets erratically @MandiraPattnaik.