Himali Singh Soin

Himali Singh Soin is a poet and ideator with a degree in English and Theatre. She likes taking photographs of peeling walls and pipelines and wondering about rebirth. Other activities include traveling to the source, connecting dots, plotting revolutions and imagining alternative realities full of the color orange and spiral staircases and love.

The Affair

A woman's arm, festooned with maroon bangles, clinks tlin tlin tlin tlin as
the 419 bus bumps through crowded streets, leaving in her wake, beads of
sweat that rub against the rotund, mustached man who replaces her a few
stops later, eagerly awaiting his own departure, knowing that his wife and
child will be waiting at his house on Shah Jahan Road with open arms and in
the case that both were away, well even better, for his mistress would be at
home, lying on his bed, plump freckles creating a red smile, and long nails
that seductively turn up the radio to the crude brash songs of Bollywood
from the 90's, silencing life outside, as he would unbutton his shirt and
come up to her from behind, unravel her sari, undo her blouse, spread her
legs then muffle her scream by letting her teeth boar in his wrist like a
hungry ghost, knowing that very soon the doorbell would ring and they would
have to rustle a pause, her bangles clinking tlin tlin tlin tlin when she
ran down the escape ladder to the servant's room as he hurriedly got dressed
then complained to his wife about his tiring day at work then the sweaty bus
ride back home, and she would comfort him gently, put their son to sleep,
polish his shoes for work the next morning, offer to give him a massage,
make dinner, all the while smelling women's perfume and using all the
strength in her arms and in her mind to wash off the red lipstick from the
breast of his shirt, blood on his heart, applying ointment on the scabs on
his wrist, choosing to stay silent for fear of disequilibrium, then visiting
the temple the next morning and praying, still silently, for her husbandís
prosperity and her child's education, which maybe his mistress better than
she would be able to support, and with these excuses, she would return home,
on a crowded bus, her arm glinting with sweat, her maroon bangles clinking
tlin tlin tlin tlin every time the bus tread on uneven ground.

"   "
There is a theory that was born
When the universe was-
That for each thing created
There would be one more:
Everything must arrive in twos.

For every tree there is another tree
For every shoe another shoe
For every poison an antidote
For every lover an enemy.

But whilst for every fire there is water
Water itself has no double, no companion.
The river is the only river
The sea the only sea
The puddle the only puddle
Its companion is not another of itself,
-For it is always all of itself-
Rather its counterpart is the container in which it is held
Its shape and volume -and displacement--molded to its partner's.

Thus do we come in paradoxical twos
For each human there is another
But we are made up mostly of water
And so do we assume the mold or the cast, as the case may be,
Of our doubles,
Then we are complete
With form and function
Beauty and buoyancy
And we taste
The work that we are unable to finish
On the mouth of our containers
-Our lovers-
From which we fill our bodies
With the very substance that
Resists containment.

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