Sanchita Sahoo

I Still Call Him Orissa

The first step on the staircase.
My long white skirt dragged behind
in a haste.

Dusty books, artifacts, that flower vase from Cuba.
Aja’s ghost sitting in the library
sips tea and chews a betel leaf,
tracing Elliot’s land of waste.

A couple more steps, I’m at a curve.
Black tresses flowing, feet shuffling,
my anklets swerve.

Miniature Gogh, a Pattachitra, Mama’s elementary doodles.
Aai’s walls adorned with countless memories,
the big lonely house her world,
80 days fall short, Jules Verne.

Three quarters covered, heart’s pace
darting like my kohl-lined eyes,
A crimson face.

Poignant letters, old cassettes, the dwarf Jasmine tree.

Summer days spent treasure hunting,
sniffing every nook and corner.
I’m like Blyton on a Doyle case.

The last flight, my brows fret,
somber spots of light on the silk Kurti,
sun rays on the parapet.

Clueless brain, indoor plants, a blank white screen.
In the city I sit, reminisce, and yearn for
not the old house, literature, or bloodlines
but my first love, a Bomikhal sunset.

I am Sanchita Sahoo, a 23 year old poet and writer from India. I am currently taking a gap year after four years of undergraduate English, to focus solely on writing. After doing literature, I realised my heart lies in writing rather than political/cultural commentaries or in-depth analyses. So basically, still doing the same but instead in the name of book/material research. I am heavily interested in Indian fiction and want to eventually be able to produce something in that category myself. My self-proclaimed strength is the slice-of-life, slow living genre. I like reading authors like Sally Rooney, Meg Mason and Jhumpa Lahiri. I take special interest in translations too. Other than writing and poring over books all day, I like scrolling through aesthetic pinterest boards on home decor and fashion. I also enjoy watching mediocre cooking shows on netflix while tending to my dying house plants. One of my favourite shows right now is Midnight Diner: Tokyo Stories. Poetry, as my very short prelude from Tagore suggests, is a very private exercise for me. I sing only (mostly) for myself. I prefer to write in the short story form because I feel like there’s nowhere to hide in poetry. My poetry often reflects me as a person or intertwines intricately with my own emotions at the moment of writing. This sharing, therefore, is very intimate and I hope I can communicate this familiarity and affinity to the readers.