Written by Nandini Sethi
Stuck in traffic,
Eyes boring into the static radio set,
Hoping for something – anything,
I just didn’t know what.
The lights were gleaming,
Crimson. Flicker. Bright Red.
And the pestering clicks of the wiper
Soon came to be the tune stuck in my head.
I did my best to get out of work in a hurry,
To my plush couch and last night’s dinner,
But the bald, middle-aged man typing away on his computer opened my eyes
To a life I wouldn’t know I had otherwise.
He did everything slowly,
As if he never wanted to complete his work,
Unopened files, unfinished meals, and unorganized task lists.
I couldn’t help but ask him, “do you not want to go back home?”
He laughed and shook his head, “I have no one to go home to.”
I patted his shoulder and walked away,
Not realizing the magnitude of his words.
Until now, as I tap my feet to the rhythm of the windshield wiper,
Wondering who I was going home for –
The palpable couch or a warm dinner,
A blaring TV, notes of which amalgamated with the screams of crying children,
Who in the bigger scheme of things,
Couldn’t be happier;
Tables upturned, sheets undone, and chaos everywhere.
I was going home to a sight,
Made not by the warm, expensive couch I loved,
But by the people by whom I was loved.