The road home

Everyday on my way back from work, i pass the army cantonment area,

and pass small lanes of houses, wondering what it would be like to live in one of them.... 

everyday i become a little girl,

who would have gone by the name of Sunaina,

who sports two pigtails, and follows kittens while they are doing just fine by themselves

and brings them home,

much to her mothers constant worry about the mental well being of her only child.

She wears skirts which her mother stitches for her,

she likes the fact that they look like potato sacks.

every night at the stroke of eight,

she rushes out, as if to attend to a routine chore,

into the soft yellow verandah light,

which is hardly visible with all the moths flying around it

she stares hard, to count the fireflies in her house compound,

but never rushes to catch them,

this house, and the trees that are as much her living room,

have taught that when it comes to nature,

everything should be left where it is.

This is her only time with herself

She has the luxury to want to be by herself,

Everyday i see her sitting in that slopey tile roofed cottage,

which looks so abandoned,

yet so endearingly homely

waving with all her life at me,

perhaps 

it is her time to count fireflies again.