Home

He leans back on the arm-chair,

A cup of tea by his side;

Untouched.

Nothing in the newspaper

That can shock these wrinkled eyes.

He looks at the walls;

He looks at the clock;

With every space filled;

His house still feels empty.

Memories of his home

Attempt to fill the void in his heart.

The blank white walls of his house;

Take him to his colourful aangan in Sindh.

His smartphone beeps with a message

“ Taakhe chetichand ji vadhayun”;

The smartphone’s lit display

Reminds him of his mother’s colourful saree.

The way its colour would bring out her eyes;

The purchased Lolas are placed on the pan;

Cold and without their real essence.

A bite into it and he reminisces the aroma

Of the ones his mother made.

Their fragrance would wake him up;

And he would charge towards the kitchen

With tiny steps and the biggest smile.

His nightmares are memories of his home;

When he wakes up in cold sweat

All he can see are blank walls;

All he can feel are forced stories of the present;

Refusing to co-exist with the memories

Of his once and always beloved home.

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