Yellow
Yellow is the fear that made your hands tremble as the curtains went up for your monologue. Yellow is the dress you wore when he first fell in love with you. Yellow are the post-it he left on your desk before moving across the globe.
Yellow is the rose from a friend on Valentine’s day, and it is the market-bought butter - an agreeable comprise to the white home-churned one. Yellow is the shirt worn by a fisherman- setting out for the sea of blue.
Yellow are the walls of the cafe where you defeated him in a game of Othello, and later wish you hadn’t. It is the bedsheet you won at a giveaway but love too much to use. Yellow are the homemade oils that stand against the kitchen windowsill and yellow were the flames that lapped up the neighbour’s building: their pet dog and all.
Yellow is the sole of your feet when they have been oiled by your mother who feels guilty of making you run too many errands. It is your windscreen during the drive back home when you get off from work before the sun does.
Yellow is the language the butterflies talk in, and yellow is the ink you wish you could write your exam papers in. Yellow was the first egg you ever made - scrambled and with grated pepper-jack. It was the pineapple stitched on the cap that he gifted you, twice, because you lost it the first time.
Yellow is the wildfire that stole our kangaroos, and yellow are the lemons they told you to eat to fight the virus in your body. Yellow was the auto-rickshaw that you waved at when it began to pour, and yellow was your favourite coffee mug that slipped through your hands and shattered across the floor.
Yellow is the song that reminds you of him because he said it reminded him of you. It is the lampshade in the downtown hotel where you snuck him in when he came to visit. It is the strength you wish you felt when he left, instead of the blue you really did.
Yellow is the coaster stained with carelessly spilled green tea. It is the school bus you missed because you took too long to polish your P.E. shoes “white like your teeth” (as the teacher demanded.) Yellow were your teeth when you got braces as soon as you turned thirteen.
Yellow are the bananas your mother sent to work for your evening snack, but yellow was the Maggi you wanted to eat instead. It was his eyes as they grew pale with fever, and yellow was the turmeric milk you made for him (as your grandmother would when you caught a cold.) Yellow is the park you dreamt you lived next to, and it is the smile you decided to wear when the inside felt blue.
It is the highlighted notes in your biology book you wish you had studied (because then you’d be making more money now.) Yellow was the first furniture you bought with him: an armchair you refused to give away when your job took you to a new city. It was the beer you drank with your friends during your farewell party.
Yellow were the envelopes you dug deep in your drawer because he was no more to send them out to. Yellow must have been the blood that smeared from his head after he put a gun to it.
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Aradhita Saraf