 Jagari Mukherjee is a poet and writer from Kolkata, India. She has an MA in English Literature from the University of Pune, and was awarded a gold medal and several prizes by the University for excelling in her discipline. Her writings, both poetry and prose, have appeared in several newspapers, magazines, journals, anthologies, and blogs. Her first book, a collection of poems entitled Blue Rose, was published in May 2017 by Bhashalipi. She is a DAAD scholar (2005), Best of the Net 2018 nominee, a Bear River 2018 alumna, and the winner of the Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize 2018 (book review). NOWHEREWhen our trains cross on a cold Sunday between Burdwan and Guskara… I, sitting at the window, watching the onset of winter darkness and the occasional snatches of light, realize that I have nowhere to go. The reality of epiphany settled on me like fog on the mountainous roads to Thimpu I once traversed. I had somewhere to reach then. A city I adored. Today, in the plains the trains are late by hours and I understand that I have not moved a bit. I am incapable of escape because all roads are leading to our trains, constantly crossing each other in and out. Still looking out of the window, I drink some lemon masala tea and am trapped into wondering if you are doing the same. I see that there is a new address printed on the ticket in my handbag. The address is a name familiar to you. BreadThe other day, I broke some bread -- the lesser half of a cheese sandwich I tore off for myself, and left for you the greater half. Our tea -- mine black, yours sugared – changed to red wine, and together we participated in the communion. You are the Messiah and I your disciple sharing the body and the blood of words written, of yet more words unspoken. You are the Christ and I your Magdalene learning from you how to gift myself with the soul, cleansing my shamed body in the fire of your adoration. Sitting across a table and sharing a sandwich is not the signified, but a signifier. Somewhere my love, meanings are not endlessly deferred. Set To Low You gave me two blue hearts.
Reds and pinks are for others… I am a three-dimensional blue. I imagine you are too. Nobody imagines blue is love. Some say it is a tranquil hue or perhaps the color when one is sad. Blue films, they opine, are very bad. Blue is the flame when the stove is on ‘Sim’, set to low. Two blue crystal hearts next to a flower vase -- the lasting flavor of two blue plums, a reward for the gardener and his labor. I am a three-dimensional blue. I'll contend that you are too.
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