Little House

That little house

Was it always empty, unoccupied?

the broken walls un-mended

trees outgrowing walls and seeping inside,

like a no man’s land

How the thunder and fierce rains fell its sheds and

the dripping water collected in left-out corners

and self-made pits

At the sun’s rising, the cows approaching

and waiting to feed on stale breads


Was this little house always empty, unoccupied?

Or were there happy, smiling men with neck-long hair

Women with headscarves, tired from the day but not life

Who rose before the sun to hide the day’s start-offs

and then picked up designated responsibilities

the girls fetching water and mothers cleaning and cooking

the men off to the farms, and then

all of them together at daytime for a hearty meal

and a relaxing noon-sleep!


Was that little house always empty, unoccupied?

or were there women who smiled at every passer-by

with curious eyes, to know their story

and mingle with creatures just like them

to share laughter and shed worries

and maybe not empty the house and leave unanswered queries


Was that little house always empty, unoccupied?

or was it full of untold stories?


Image Credit: Self


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  1. Really brought up many memories of houses alive with sounds and then slowly dying. Your poem reminded me of AK Ramanujan’s folktales: he speaks of human tendency to weave stories, the word he uses is autotellic.

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Written by Nitika Sawhney

I am an aspiring writer. I'm still discovering my strengths and learning the art of poetry and prose.

Professionally, I'm into Internal Communications and feel blessed to have a work life that is closely related to what I am passionate about, Writing :)

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