Nothing much remains anymore,
Except stray snapshots of a blur;
A silhouette of a girl at the door
A fragment of the people who were..
The miniature vessels, an endless game,
Those myriad faces with no name;
Woven into young innocent memories,
Courtyard capers and fingernails with grease.
The countless wrinkles and glassy eyes,
A cloud of dust and a gleaming road
Dissolved into The Sand that flies,
Those hands that built that abode.
A story so common yet untold,
A frame bent around a sari's fold,
It takes me back to a time so tame;
To the varied faces with no name...
~Inspired by the short story 'The Real Durwan' -Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri.
Made me think of all those people who worked around the house when I was a kid.I wonder where they are now...
