While on a walk down the street

in the month of December,

I came across a leafless tree with broken branches

and it reminded me of the house back in town.

The house at the end of the street,

the house with four walls but no roof,

the house with a door but no windows,

the house that everybody knows about but nobody talks about.

The house that hides stories of grandmother’s bitter poetry,

father’s too loud afternoons and mother’s silent dark nights,

the house that hides stories of her silent cries,

the house that hides stories of our lives.

From as long as I remember,

the walls in the house have listened and spoken

more than the people in the house ever did,

none of them were good listeners and they never spoke to each other.

And when they did,

it were through bowls, plates, chairs, table, sticks and stones,

a language unknown to some and known to most,

the language of love.

The old house back in town

still smells of wars, wounds and dead warriors

and when people ask me why I never go back home

and I smile and tell them that I don’t remember the way.

While on a walk down the street

in the month of December

I came across a leafless tree with broken branches

and it reminded me of the life which lies buried in an old trunk under my bed.

                                                                       ~Tamanna Malik

                                                                         Delhi, India