In Kushal’s poem, a child’s question births imagined trees—mango hybrids blooming in memory—while an eerie, fragrant dusk stirs mystery and sensation, exclusively for Different Truths.
The hairy sky scurries and slips
inside the dark head of a long tree.
"Which tree is it?" The child asks.
My mother always answered, "A mango."
So, we had cottonwood-mango,
fig-mango and guava-mango.
In the fragrant locks of the evening
we hold our breath and release it.
The nameless tree buzzes around,
pricks our skin, and hisses near our toes.
Picture design by Anumita Roy





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