Poetry - Writer

Pigeons sat over the wire

two men looked down their roof

the watchman lay on the charpoy below

I moved my lips as he moved his hands

the tea vendor brought out his stove

it was to be a few minutes before tea boiled

The room was empty, the cot was still

putting shoes on I went downstairs

a milky white day had begun to come out

the man with greying hairs, combed neatly

sat near the khomcha (cart), I stood leaning over a car

Tea was poured, to begin each’s day

the man with greying hairs went for labour

the tea vendor touched the money to his forehead

I stood a while looking in the distance

The watchman still lay over his charpoy

I climbed up the stairs, huffing and puffing

lying on my bed, coming back to myself

thinking of the day, of where am I in it

Nothing much had been brought over from the night

nothing much was told out of room’s window’s sight

nothing much was there in the day to delight

I got up, thought of the tea, and began to write