by Nidhi Jha
I am midair in an escalator between the country that named me and the one that
mispronounces it. Sunsets reversed themselves. My shadow lagged behind. Alienation said
hello as if it had always owned my name.
I rolled up my sleeves as if blood could testify.
Alienation does not travel alone. In January, I held coffee like a small, obedient sun when he
introduced me to his son, Loneliness — a boy who does not blink. The walls leaned in first.
The ceilings measured my jump and refused to lower themselves. Even the trees withdrew
their fingers from the sky.
Cold entered me the way doubt does — quietly, then everywhere.
I cleared a corner of the living room for prayer. If I could not move the country, I would
move the furniture.
Morning arrived in white. The snow had written an S on the grass. I did not ask who sent it.
Solitude stepped inside without knocking.
The walls softened. The room widened its throat. Even the popcorn ceiling learned mercy. I
touched the window and did not flinch.
Coffee became light.
Nidhi Jha is an Indian writer, poet, and photographer, currently a first-year English graduate student at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. Deeply devoted to art in all forms, her creative work often weaves together her literary training and the sense of wonder she encounters through wildlife photography.
Her writing has appeared in Voices From the Classroom, an anthology by UAB creative writing students, as well as in numerous magazines in India.
She frequently explores universal themes of love, connection, friendship, and the art of living in the moment. Her writing forms pearls of self-reflection and introspection, finding comfort in unfamiliar worlds and transforming the small and big moments of everyday life into threads of literary wisdom she continues to gather. She is, quite unapologetically, obsessed with squirrels.