The Street Beside My House

Anita Mary Varghese

I went for a walk with my senses,
on the street, beside my house.
Strolling through the street,
pecked now and then by the evening sun,
the soothing touch of the southern wind,
brimming with beautiful sights -
the street beside my house,
had stories to tell!
Ceaseless harangues from
the evening market,
loud roar of the vehicles,
hooting and singing from
the crowded cinema,
from street food to lodges,
markets and malls,
the street appeared cluttered and noisy,
restless and sleepless.
The hullabaloo out there
seemed a prayer to the buried dreams,
so that they may rest in peace,
lullaby to the dormant desires,
so that they may not wake up.
But a battle cry for the soul,
to strive till death.
Graveyard of unfulfilled dreams,
lying dormant beneath
the heavy marble stones
of struggles and hunger.
Souls in plenty, pawning
their dreams on road
for a bowl of rice or stale rotis!
And towards the tapering end,
it is a home too, for
many a soul left oblivious -
their home called slum!
As I wandered down the lane, appeared
a neatly dissected cross-section -
A cross-section of the society!
The flamboyance of the rich,
trampled struggles of the ordinary
and the rooted miseries of the poor,
cohabiting this realm - a cosy hideout,
soundproof and opaque.
Neither laments heard
nor plights exposed,
but only tirades of bargaining!
The street beside my house is -
a thesaurus,
where you find synonyms of life;
a metanarrative,
where you explore the real and the unreal.
The street beside my house -
the most ordinary place I visit,
in search of myriads of sights
for my white canvas.
But that day,
I returned not with those sights
but with a story told by the street
loud and clear,
"let those who have ears hear