placeholder: "about" paragraph
The world ends at the kitchen table.
We sit there- me and my dad,
And my brother when he is home from the States.
It’s just the two of us tonight,
Like the house’s spirit.
She is making hot rotis-crafting them as
Perfect circles of flat bread, unleavened
Yet rising out of some magic
With a black burnt spot or two here and there-
Crisp, with a dollop of sweet butter at its centre
Seductively floating to its circumference
Like an iceberg melting into an ocean.
We dine together- all of us
Except her, of course.
She eats later- cold rotis
And other stuff passed off as leftovers.
My dad- seated across me,
Is texting away to someone
Or maybe reading gossip about Him-
The one who’s given him and many like him a job;
I wonder why he didn’t have one here for my brother
Who’s probably having his breakfast cereal
With low-fat milk in a bowl kept beside a screen
Reflecting white, lurid light-hypnotic like a
Snake charmer’s whispers to his serpent slave
In a foreign land
We are all invisible to each other
And what am I doing?
I am writing this on the kitchen table- why?
Because a few days ago
I had bit my tongue
And just now I bit it again
At the same spot
When trying to speak while chewing my cud.
I felt like telling you about it-
I don’t know why.