Mesh Toraskar
Bio
A wannabe storyteller from London. Sometimes words spill out of me and the only way to mop the spillage is to write them down.
"If you arrive here, remember, it wasn't you - it was me, in my longing, who found you."
Stories (31/0)
Serendipity
FADE IN: INT. BEDROOM - DUSK As dusk falls and I acquiesce to the arms of rest, my closing gesture is to call forth your memory. Yet, with each remembrance, your colours fade, your brilliance vanes, as if I am merely visiting the preceding night's echo, not the true memory I once held.
By Mesh Toraskar12 months ago in Poets
An equitable arrangement with bittersweet nostalgia
Dear Pappa, June is here, the sunlight is here, and it dragged in the bittersweet nostalgia through doors kicked open by summer. Somehow I was and wasn't ready for it to arrive, so I agreed to meet it on the page, and it was deemed to be somewhat an equitable arrangement. In a previous draft of this letter, which I've since deleted, I told you how I came to be a writer. How I, the first in our family to go to school, squandered it on a degree in rocket science. How instead, I found solace in obscure works written by dead authors, some of whom never dreamed of a brown face hanging by their sentences. I found solace in a language in which the more words I learn, the farther it carries me from you. But none of that matters. All that matters is that it brought me to this page.
By Mesh Toraskarabout a year ago in Men
ravenous AI
I can’t die this year, nor the year after; absolutely not. I want to read, read more. Not for pleasure, but to dam the constant stream of thoughts that overflows every time I witness a sunset imitating a painting or breathe in the scent of petrichor following April Rain.
By Mesh Toraskarabout a year ago in Poets
Crying on the Circle Line
May 1. "May I begin?", you ask yourself, out loud, before you started writing this. But you know there is no choice. Elsewhere in the city, it is bank holiday Monday. A spirited rebellion takes flight as people abandon their Monday obligations, filling up parks, pubs, bars and dance floors in a vibrant migration like of butterflies bewitched by their favourite May blooms.
By Mesh Toraskarabout a year ago in Fiction