Every day I go to HOME
And ENTER through the door
To my drawing room-
There I have hung my drawings
And framed some of my writings.
When guests come they see them.
Some admire them,
Most deny they exist
And carry on.
Cross the threshold and you reach my bedroom
Where are drying my wife’s lingerie,
And the crumpled bed lies unattended.
Good thing I have locked the door.
Home, sweet home-
What’s so much to me
Is just a curiosity!
-5/2/2000, Calcutta- 63