Living Within the Past Lane

White linen on the bed, not washed for long,

The morning tea from her hand is long lost,

The mystifying essence of the incense sticks,

She lit every morning, the sound of the bell,

She rang during her prayers, waking the house,

Giving the flame of worship with her hands,

Things are much silent now, like he wanted,

 

Unfilled vessels of pickles are empty quite long,

The pungent smells of mangoes and lemons,

Mixed with mustard oil, are long gone to smell,

No more the bronze utensils crash on earth,

Inside the kitchen the lamp is not lit anymore,

The smell of the fire, her hand made rotis,

 Are lost with the smoke, that raised sky high,

 

Plants she grew in the porch, have dried in despair,

Her colorful clothes doesn’t hang anymore,

On the wire, now sits on them, are the,

Crows, sparrows and pigeons, with morning dew,

The bed with mosquito net shakes no more,

It’s now a void house of the village in the corner,

 

He stays there alone, aloof and abandoned,

Left hurriedly amid the journey of togetherness,

For now she hangs on the wall, caged in a frame,

He always retaliated from her loud life gestures,

Feeling agitated with her noisy opening of the day,

Always loved peace so that he can sleep more,

 Alas! Things are much silent now, like he wanted.

 

*Monalisa Joshi*

 

 

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Living Within the Past Lane

    1. thank you Rita…yes you said it right my motive was to make the absence felt from the things in the house making her more present and missed …guess it worked since you have got the essence of my poem. I am grateful to you that you read the poem and enjoyed. 🙂

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