I often sit on the french window

I often sit on the French window

In the living room of my 16th floor apartment

And look at the innumerable buildings visible

It gives me goose bumps to think

That every household has a story to tell

With gaiety, fulfilment or melancholy to the brink

The saree clad woman with green bangles on

Is cooking dinner as her thoughts go haywire

Perspiration drops through the forehead

Of her tired & unmindful face

Trying to recollect whether she put salt instead of sugar

She finally rests her case

Old grandpa is looking through the pages of an album

Cherishing the moments of his youth

When skin was wrinkle free and hair devoid of grey

When the look in the eyes was brash and hopeful

Some drops struggle to come out, some questions block the mind

Given a chance would have embellished life with moments a little more colourful

Extended lockdown, has put job life to crisis

“This goddamn virus” says the man fed up with the stress of his work from home life

Untimely wrinkles have clouded his forehead

Next month’s salary is at stake, he has no means to escape

Liabilities mount high on his weakened shoulders

No ray of hope in that wretched landscape

Remember the woman in the kitchen, lost in her thoughts?

She actually goofed up sugar and salt

And when she served porridge to her frustrated man

The resounding slap made her senses disappear

She looked at the locked doors and wondered with teary eyes

Which is more painful the viral disease or the never ending sighs?

The little boy was standing holding the bars of the balcony

“Mom, when shall I go out to play again?” he asks

“God will listen, pray with all your heart” Mom replies with a smile

The boy goes back to staring at the empty park

His mind is full of hope; God’s wrath will end soon

And humanity will again boon

While someone posts the picture of a sumptuous, experimental meal

She is worried what to cook; her kitchen is out of stock of grains

Her daily wager husband has not earned a penny since long

Government subsidies do not reach in time

“I wouldn’t mind dying in hunger”

“But for my little daughter, is poverty her crime?”

I often sit on the French window

In the living room of my 16th floor apartment

And pity myself for my anxiety in confinement

Seldom do I realise how privileged I am

I have food to eat, comfortable bed to sleep

I have the luxury to narrate and think this deep.

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