HOME

 

Home is where Mummy is,

Where attention is showered without bias and prejudice.

Where you get scolded for missing your Fajr irrespective of how old you are.

Where you can dress like a homeless drug addict and still be accepted,

Where you can dress like a Hindi Serial Bahu and still be roasted.

Where your tea addiction never questioned,

Where your hair and scalp get oiled without being requested.

Where you get unlimited supply of  your favourite Beef achar,

And you can lick the Nutella off the jar,

Where the pazhamporis are so perfect that they just melt in your mouth.

Where all your absolutely-unnecessary-impulsive-buy from Amazon get delivered.

Where even you tiniest complaint is heard.

 

Home is where Daddy is,

No man's love can be compared to his.

Home is where a girl can dream,

And she is treated with some esteem.

Where she is not constantly reminded that ‘A Woman’s place is in the Kitchen’,

Where her opinions are valued and she loosens her inhibition.

Where a girl can eat with the rest of the family,

And not nibble on the leftovers silently.

Where the love is unconditional,

 And the admonition good intentional.

Home is where the mind unwinds,

The body rejuvenates and the soul rebinds.