Smriti Kumar Sinha Translated by Ramlal Sinha Clad in a talaphuti[1], you look like a zebra.” “What!?” Kalpana questioned Amol, while unhooking her earrings in front of the dressing table. “An African zebra, a jazzy talaphuti-clad Kalpana,” said Amol in his lilting voice of recitation. Wham! Right on the target! Kalpana sat on the bed in a huff. She felt terribly jaded hearing only poems for three hours at a stretch in the soirée organised by the Tirash group of poets in the town. As though to cap it all, the simile he used left her nerves jangling. She couldn’t even change her dresses to breathe freely again, there’s yet another poem. “It’s the plight in store for the wives of poets. What a simile he has chosen! African zebra! It’s the height of degradation,” a sulking Kalpana was thinking. Her blood was boiling . “What has made your blood boil?” Amol fired another salvo. “Psychoanalysis of any sort isn’t warranted,” Kalpana shot back, banged the door and entered t...
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