Road
a straight, black ribbon.
Matchboxes of flats
lined up side by side,
silent and peaceful
the area.
Vendors of fish, groceries,
fruits
come pushing their carts
in the mornings
shouting atop their voice,
inviting everyone's attention
tearing apart fabric of
the eerie calmness and
peace in the colony.
Each flat an Island,
looks of
strangeness flashing
across each occupant's face
on seeing the one
the next door.
No familiarities, hence no smiles
no exchange of pleasantries,
each for himslef/herself
the tooting of private vehicles,
rare,
like a conch-shell blowing
from a distant temple
the occasional sirens of trains
from afar
each goes out in the
morning,
comes back before twilight,
tea, bath
doors kept closed,
and all line-up before TV sets,
News, music, dance, serials,
No eavesdropping whatsoever
and no voyeurism,
Thank God.
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