The clock ticks
the chapati is burning..
Smell of burnt food and fragrance of talcum powder.
A horrible cocktail in the air..
A busy and confused world we live in..
nothing more complex.. than the early morning preparations.
Like the folks before who saw the sunlight at the begning and the sunset in the end.
Working wives see the kitchen at the begning and end of the day.
Lyk the old folks
who listened to birds sing in the morning and evening..
The man listens to demands from his boss in the morning
and family in the evening.
Like the old folks who were taught to observe and feel..
The young minds are ordered to conform and study.
Their vast variant and vivid spectrum..
being cut into perfect bandwidths
enough to fit in the lot.
And the tiny ones loiter around the home..
having a good laugh at the rat race.
then somethng that breaks their laughter..
A hand from the back that will push them…
into the rat race.
Getting sucked into this vicious black wirlpool.
I won’t call it reality.
Reality is what we make.