Our Forest

Here: One Lockdown Away

I smell a smell that has become familiar to me. It is fetid—acrid smoke rises from the pan—its propagator aptly having a name with four letters. Foul to some, yet fervently used by others. While some call it The Devil’s Dung, it will be the base for lunch. Different coloured lentils stew over the stove; I pick out the gases it leaves behind that if not would turn into farts. The mountains gleam through my kitchen’s greased-up windows. I am surrounded by the tallest peaks in the world. More...