Making of Time Two Prose Poems by Chaitali Gawade

Making of Time

You have to have ribbons of steel flowing in your blood to perfect this craft. You have to gather eons in your mouth, let it sit, marinate a while. The taste should be enough to make you weep, little pinpoints of ecstasy all over your tongue. The stars sieved through, nights and days snapped together at the edges. Horizons split open with the seams ripped out. You gather some truths from endless possibilities of truths, like the unerring hand of a ragpicker. Along with all of this, you need to throw in some lies for seasoning. The fire from your hands should be hot enough to turn your bones black. Add in second servings of torn skies if the batter is not thick enough to make the earth tilt. Tears are poured in, though the difference they make in the final product is minute. The air crackles and the ripped sky fuses together with the echoes of longing. A tiny crack, a loud sound, and time rolls out from my mouth.


I am a myriad of colours. Some, more dominant than the others. I am black, edging on the darker side of life. The green swirl of jealousy, envy breeds in me, but the green of new life and hope hold strong roots within me. The blue in me is of calm skies and placid waters holding a deep stillness within me. The red in me is an inch deep, anger and pain waiting to let loose. I am ethereal silver and a forged mould of gold. The orange hue of early dawn rises within me and brings forth each day fresh from the laundry. I am grey at the edges, gluing all the pieces together.

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. She blogs at