​

I stumbled upon a photo: mangoes laid out on the table,

tea cups half-fllled with chai, still warm with conversation.

It reminded me of the peaceful morning that we spent there in that mango farm,

some 100 kilometers away from home.

This was my third space, or rather one of many,

Fleeting, momentary.

It was funny how, in a city like Hyderabad, we used to scrape through every street, nook and

corner,

like a mother carefully parting her child’s hair—

To search for a momentary escape

from the walls that shaped our small routine lives.

The maps would say it was just a few minutes away,

the number increased, more and more,

with every new place, the old closed down, barred with thin sheets of metal,

Another small forbidden piece of Earth

Filled with attened old rocks,

private wheels replacing long strolls,

Now all of the third spaces I experienced so far stay hidden in a digital screen, waiting for me to

accidentally stumble upon them again.

Now that third space travelled thousands of kilometres with me,

waiting to welcome me once more.