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The Soap Bubble

Nivedita Narsapuram

It is a slow, cathartic process.
First you do not see them and
then you don’t hear them.

Your mother’s shrieks like the cooker whistle;
your father’s shouts like the
kick of a Kinetic bike– loud and smoky;
your siblings’ fights
 like the cat fights that
purr all day without purpose
and then..
slowly, the morning noises –
paper, papppar.. or Amma sabzi or
 a Yeah doodh main pani kam hain
diminishes.

The friendly rickshaw-men
don’t stand near your lane anymore.
Even the trees are no longer
Asoka but
exotic ones like American witch hazel.
And the gardens don’t host nervous lovers
 who whisk past the swings.

But…like a soap bubble
they enter your ears and when you’re asleep,
slip into your dreams.

 

 

 

 

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