It is 10.30 in the night,
the next house is busy,
I am wrong, it is no more
an house but an eatery
overnight.
The clatter while making
[i]Kothu [/i][/i]Parotta
tears the silence. Spot
lights shine.
Five or six cooks
mix the flour, roll
into balls, spread them
and swing left to right.
Watching the art of making
such ones with awe,
anguish surges when I think
of the yesterdays ,
the place was a haven of peace
silent and holy. I could hear
the fall of a pin minutely.
I blame none but my destiny.
Meenas Poems 