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 (24/0)
- Top Story - November 2023
We Wasted Our Wednesday Dying Slowly
We are folding laundry, this man and I, our hands moving in tandem along the cotton sheets and shirts. Someone somewhere is losing their mother but here, it's so quiet, every crease in the fabric tells a story. This man and I, we take what will unravel anyway and fold it neatly, creating space. There is so much room in a life; there should be more of us in here. My voice, which is inches away but never here, are you content where you are? Are you you where you are? Something must come of this.
By Mesh Toraskarabout a month ago in Poets
- Top Story - October 2023
On unhurried creativityTop Story - October 2023
Preface: Every time we remember, I recently discovered, we create new neurons, new pathways that store information. Which was in stark contrast to my presumption that I simply returned to the permanent and reliable folds in my brain. Folds that were made when I fell off the bike for the first time or when I brushed my teeth the night of my first kiss, eulogising its sweetness. So that tied in comfortably with the reliability of memory. Was it mud or concrete that I fell on, did I run my fingers through her hair or held them awkwardly behind my back?
By Mesh Toraskarabout a month ago in Writers
- Top Story - October 2023
Acquiescing to Colour: An Anthem
Sometimes, just before I fully sink into the deliciousness of sleep, as I hover on the moistened lip of unconsciousness, I see myself creating the world’s next literary masterpiece. In this vision, I am in a well-lit room, and strewn all over the room are myriad supplies: books, pens, notepads, figuratively epicentred by my confident vision and literally by a standing desk. The world’s next literary masterpiece will be a novel, as much a coming-of-age story as it is a coming-of-art.
By Mesh Toraskar2 months ago in Writers
Aftersun (dir. Charlotte Wells)
Memories, misunderstood as crystallised time capsules trellising our pasts are anything but. Real and imagined crudely stitched. Some tactile; others soft as ghosts, likely to morph upon discovery. Both evocative, neither enough to paint someone’s lingering silhouette whole.
By Mesh Toraskar4 months ago in Critique
- Top Story - August 2023
- Top Story - August 2023
