It’s called relief, this silence that I have just torn into, gnawing the bones of darkness. The charcoal clouds above gather and split open just as a silver spoon clinks into the empty cup.

After your burial, they say you will come back as a crow, just like your father and your father’s father – hungry and impatient, cawing away the day. But I know you better, so instead of the crumbling parapet of our house, I search for you in the swell of the ocean.

– Paresh Tiwari