inked in colours and gold, old indian bound books to mark the travels of time

she climbed the stony hill, to a small cave, dark and cool and frankincence-scented.

dark-lion eyes gazed from within at the tiny brown hands ribboned to wrists as her fingers stroked the covers of notebooks bound with the images of hindi gods, regal in their gold-foil splendour, they are knotted together with bavarian ribbon in gaudy colours, lest the thoughts of men past surrender to daylight's endless cycle.

pondicherry is stamped on the back and a handful of paper money is exchanged for the promise of delight and desire, the murmurs of shadows and the singsong of muslin flapping at the window. the wolves followed her heels as she picks her way down the arid street, at odds with the whitewash.

cecily