Living Room
Our evenings have withdrawn
into a closed living room,
where we don’t chat
but let a large TV cheat us.
We watch life on a screen
with a vicarious thrill.
There were children everywhere
in our ancestral home –
you could see one
even within a bamboo basket
lying upside down.
‘One’ is the ideal number now.
No one likes
noises annoying the living room.
We’ve banished our only daughter
into an adjacent study –
where she’s seen
as a broiler chicken.
A savory smell,
wafting up from the kitchen,
used to tickle my nostrils,
while sitting on the veranda.
Now our cooker rarely whistles –
fast-food parcels really silence our kitchen.
Our pa and ma had defeated the hard soil –
it was their sweat drops
that soothed our stomachs.
We’ve discarded the defunct parents
in a dark stinking room,
even where they pray for us.
We peep into others’ life
with a voyeur’s eyes.
Love and fun hatch not
out of our muted words.
We aren’t living here,
only imagining of living.
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