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The Kitchen Table

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,

And her

Always there

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.