I googled for a definition – a prose poem is neither fully prose, nor in verse, perhaps like me, neither here nor there, full of similes and metaphors mixed – neither rooted in the east, not fully accepted in the west, neither a bloomer nor a millennial, almost snow, now dew, fog, mist, never sparkling, nor invisible. Neither here nor there, a Narasimha but a woman, a husband and a wife on my own to myself, a western Desi, a desi westernised. In heaven and often in hell, in Trishanku’s heaven – between the earth and the joys of living, between not engaging with the customs and trying to fit, walking the line and yet not intoxicated, imaginative yet nothing magical, too practical. Risk averse or not? Life has been one full risk – like walking into an English summer without a brolly, finding love in unlikely places, but never finding it, mirages of love on glass shards. It's in English and it's full of words that you don't know. This prose-poem is neither prose nor poem, and is just like me. You get it and yet you don't.