On Fruit & Flight
Dear reader,
In January, I have been thinking about loneliness. The shape of it. Sharp edges and pointy toes. All prickly and stark naked. The way its rind feels against my fingers. How often I think about the softness that sits within.
I don’t know when we first encounter loneliness - the exact moment our bodies fuse. It’s easy to attribute the origins to our teenage years, where all of a sudden very little of the world makes sense to us. But I’ve been wondering about how lonely it is in the womb. When we first come to life, like little specks of light in a dark room. Bone and skin and blood and an emptiness. Expanding with no one to infringe on our space. Fingers reaching out and grasping at nothing.
Perhaps, we are inherently lonely creatures.
But if we were to look at the loneliness that lives inside us as a seasonal fruit - born of the daily watering of our deepest insecurities and taking decades to fully ripen - then surely one day, it will fall from our bodies or perhaps someone will come to pluck it and we will be free. In the blink of an eye, it will be gone. Forever. And in that abyss we will find something.
If we want to stop being lonely, we must think of what the tree does to rid itself of fruit. Stuck in a single spot for decades or even centuries, watching every living thing around it decay and die, it has surely learnt a thing or two.
The tree calls the wind and the langoors and the squirrels and the yellow-footed green pigeons. It does not hesitate. It flaps its arms and shakes its entire body and bursts into colour - making it impossible to ignore its bounty.
Because it knows all propagation, all birth, all that is possible in the future is possible only from the very centre of its fruit.
Maybe, that is what we must attempt to do too - call attention to our loneliness. Shout it from our rooftops. Stop hiding it beneath our skin. Turn it into reddening suns and purple jewels and wear it on our chests. Bend to thrust it in the eyes of those passing by. Give it the scent of hope and citrus and kindness. Be generous. Let it fall from our bodies when it has ripened.
A Poem for January
I’m thrilled to share that I have three poems in the latest issue of Outskirts Literary Journal. One of these is ‘Stormbird’ and it came to me almost all at once, one night in September.
Here’s a link to read these 3 poems.
In 2026, I’m trying to practise some slowness. So, going forward you may hear from me a little less frequently. Thank you for your patience.
I’ll also be sharing more of my writing on both Instagram and Substack Notes. If you enjoy reading my poetry, you can follow me in these spaces to stay updated.
Love,
Sukriti