I had the pages open in front of me,
yet they were silent.
The inevitable had not set in,
if it had, the tale would have been told.
The freshly bought lavender,
accompanied the presence of the unknown.
The hues were still absent,
waiting for the forlorn tale to start.
As the winds gushed open the windows,
the pages started flickering.
The scented lavender proved its presence,
the vivid colours showering.
The white pages turn red,
betrayal ringing in my head.
History may be regarded as divine,
yet divinity may be cruel sometimes.
Once red, they hesitated.
The pages were clever.
However I tried, elated,
but the story wouldn’t proceed ever.
They were illusions,
bound in a stance of solitude.
A story untold in every aspect,
passion written all over its face.
And then the magic happened,
colours of all the memories and incidents
started bursting out,
and in an instance, the
pages turned multicoloured.
All I could do was wait,
my presence was just a fantasy.
It was a world of illusions,
with reality smeared over the pages.
Souvik Biswas is a second-year student from Hindu College, Delhi University. He loves to read fiction more than non-fiction.