There is a kid somewhere in the world,
who feels guilty for sleeping,
without feeding the doll.
And there is this girl,
who talks to a departed sibling,
because he could comfort her,
The old man watched the door for years,
after his son left,
praying to him sometimes,
like he would pray to a God.
Not letting himself,
take enough comfort,
in the ones who stayed.
There is a woman in my city
who, while standing at the railway station,
thinks of a time when in place of those rails,
was a river.
She tells the same story,
to her grandchildren,
each time they visit the station.
There is a mother,
who sleeps in an empty nursery,
There must be a God of make-believe things,
who talks to hope on Sundays.
And decides, that the people from barren lands,
should feel like tourists sometimes.
That they are allowed to believe,
their city is still beautiful,
even as it perishes.
Okay, here’s a confession,
I too, take a little more sugar in tea these days,
that nothing has changed,
that the scent of cardamom
still comforts me.
And there are no empty chairs.
The thing is,
even as I am too busy to notice,
on six days out of ten,
it does feel like home.