------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dishari Banerjee. A black and white portrait, still visible in my drawing room. due to a dim light. Hazy but crystal. It seemed lot more euphoric. It does nothing but stir all the memories together, Demarcating a path. Sound of footsteps. Confusing. A white lampshade rampantly hiding some bizarre arguments as I changed the path to stop the conversation from going too far. It smelled like wine. Too old. Too delicious. You called me a slut for not sleeping with you last night. and you fell in love with the other person. Everyday. While some random assumptions bought all your love, the real portrait cherished, the dim light in my drawing room.