By: Chaitali Gawade
I mould myself to the needs of the moment as the warmth spreads through me, shaping myself against the contours I am poured in. I melt. The thread immersed in me is rough so I soften it. A few cold breezes and I’m solid again. My yellow dress crackles as fingers grip my contours. I’m lit on occasions – a celebration of Christmas, a prayer for loved ones or as a seduction over the dining table. I melt and my contours run ragged with each use, like a woman ageing.
Chaitali Gawade is a freelance writer living in Pune. Her writerly musings are fuelled by tea and coffee. Her work has been published by Twenty20 Journal, Daily Love, Postcard Shots, Duckbill Anthology and Vagabondage Press, among others.