Snapshots

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The Jamun Coloured House

The Jamun Coloured House

The Jamun Coloured House

"The street smelt of smashed dreams and forgotten yearnings and ripe desires. The tree has been gone for years now, the jamuns long dispersed into the sky above but the house still remembers, tasting them on rainy, cloud-choked nights."

"The street smelt of smashed dreams and forgotten yearnings and ripe desires. The tree has been gone for years now, the jamuns long dispersed into the sky above but the house still remembers, tasting them on rainy, cloud-choked nights."

Vidya Gopal

Published on


Hammock Snapshots are short flash fiction pieces, accompanied by an original illustration that aim to capture a moment, a feeling or a fragment of something without the pressures of long form writing. The series began on Instagram and now also features on our site.

'Every Window Has A Story' is a series of snapshots themed around the houses of Bengaluru and the imagined stories within them. Written by Priyanka Sacheti and illustrated by Vidya Gopal, they offer crystallised moments of the city inspired by homes spotted from afar.



Full Text

The jamun-hued house is mourning the jamun tree which once grew in the street outside. Every monsoon, when it fruited without fail, a deep dark purple constellation would dot the cracked, weary gray concrete below, like an inverted night sky. The street smelt of smashed dreams and forgotten yearnings and ripe desires. The tree has been gone for years now, the jamuns long dispersed into the sky above but the house still remembers, tasting them on rainy, cloud-choked nights.

The slumbering dog is dreaming of freshly starched bedsheets, of gleaming, water-cool, terrazzo floors, of softly curving terracotta doorsteps, of years-old cotton saree laps, of embroidered cushions, and a window sill which always offers a welcomes, whether on heat-parched days or dimly drizzly ones. But if you say, 'Biscuit' once, twice, or sometimes, even thrice, he will wake up and smile with his coffee-hued eyes, which have seen everything and nothing.

And the aloe vera plant is remembering the hands which once tenderly tended to it, never to cut, only to gently water and caress the soil. ‘Thank you for protecting us from the evil eyes,' those hands would whisper to the plant. But those hands are gone now. Other hands arrive, to coldly water and clinically cut the leaves, leaving the plant to bleed ghost tears. Sometime, it takes few days to heal, sometimes, longer. And then, ghostly hands will suddenly tend to it once again, whispering endearments, their evanescent touch a balm. The plant which protects is will always be protected too. 


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Priyanka Sacheti is a writer, poet, and photographer based in Bangalore, India. She grew up in the Sultanate of Oman and was educated at Universities of Oxford and Warwick, United Kingdom. She's published widely about art, gender, culture, and the environment in international digital and print publications over the years. Her literary work and art has appeared in literary journals such asBarren, Dust Mag Poetry, Common, Parentheses Art, Popshot, The Lunchticket, and The Sunlight Press, as well as various past and forthcoming poetry and short fiction anthologies. She's currently working on a poetry and short story collection. She can be found @iamjustavisualperson on Instagram and @priyankasacheti on X.