Pritam's Blog
The Bedsheet
He spends his days there
Standing in the balcony
With his crutch,
Watching the busy street down,
Watching people with legs
Getting busy with their life,
While she sleeps inside
All day
On the dirty bed,
The bed sheet never washed
Or changed in last few months,
’Cause she works all night.
And it hurts him. So,
Every evening,
When the street lights up in bright colors,
And birds and people come back home,
He seeks oblivion
In a bottle of cheap whisky
Before the big men in big cars come
To take her,
Dressed in bright colors, with them.
Bright colors, you see, hurt his eyes.
And she comes back
Late at night, and
Sometimes in the morning
And sometimes even later
When he has regained consciousness
And stands there
In the balcony with his crutch.
And it hurts her.
Nobody ever says anything.
And he thinks he should die
And she thinks if she died,
He would starve to death.
And the dirty bed,
With the dirty bed sheet,
Which was never washed or changed
In the last few months,
Which has never witnessed
The two of them making love,
But which has heard his
Alcohol driven confessions
And has seen her tears,
Knows
How madly they love each other.