My Home

Sometimes I feel my home is like the GAZA strip.

I always listen to the fights between my father and my mother ( for almost few decades now).

They fight, quarrel, abuse and it continues for hours .

At least there is a ceasefire in Palestine-Israel conflict, there is no ceasefire at my home.

It continues for hours, days and months, nonstop without any interruption.

Words are exchanged, mother in laws and father in laws names are taken.

I watch in silence, just witnessing, sometimes trying to calculate who will win this one, just like an Indo-Pak match, but I am sure not to take sides, least I may get ripped apart.

But over the years it has become a joy now to listen to their fights, fully understanding that emotions and understanding are not about artificial-ism they have to be real, one does not fight if you don’t have the love for the other person.

Now if they don’t fight  they may not be able to sleep well and if I don’t hear them fight I cannot sleep well.

When I reach home and listen to them fight, I know everything is alright.

Love has many dimensions; it can be expressed in different ways just that is needs to be original.

And thank gods that India does not have gun and bullets freely available as in the US.