Do peacocks cry

Do peacocks cry in the night
Not that I have ever heard of
An omen, a sign

Are broken down washing machines a disaster
Not so much as broken down body parts
Irreparable, inconsolable.

Are storms and blizzards calamities
Not so much as word slashes
Etched and engraved

Rising and falling
The fountain greets me
Slurping and spewing
Each morning with glee

Yet no one doth watch
The dance of water
Nor time's chains detach
`mid din and clatter

Except a baby
Dazed by the foam. Froth.
Wondering maybe
At the milky broth

Where goes the pathway
What are the big dreams
So we can't e'en stray
For bubbles and beams?

On your own

The snow storm that descended upon us, all too suddenly and made us scurry for a roof over our heads, is a scenario I would remember for a while. The road screaming by with no clear edges and our son driving on instinct - we almost touched the brink and sprang back I think. And he had bemoaned the lack of snow in Houston.

After that vigorous drive to Santa Fe past Roswel and the the Carlbad caverns, we settled down to a relaxed review of life in the USA.

Many facts surprised me by their bluntness. The most blunt was the fact that we had to do everything, every single thing on our own. It was an ennobling experience. Not to have the paper boy delivering your favorite paper in your hand each morning; the milkman ringing the bell to hand over fresh packets each day; the vegetable and fruit vendors lugging huge baskets and settling down at your doorstep for a furious argument over the price; the mailman tossing in letters or asking for your signature for parcels; your driver giving the car a good rub down; your gardener weeding and watering the plants; your maid sweeping, swiping, dusting your house and washing your clothes and dishes; your cook putting three meals on the table; the iron man pressing your clothes to perfection and the grocer delivering the ordered goods at the door.

Wow, that is one long list! Where did all these folks disappear in America I wondered. Only to realize that they had simply coalsed into one strong person who had come to live with my son. Inside him, rather. We now found our soft spoken, sophisticated boy doing grocery, chopping and cooking his meals everyday; washing the dishes after each meal; collecting mail, driving and maintaining his car; taking care of the potted plants; washing, drying and ironing his clothes; vacuuming and maintaining his compact apartment. And keeping everything in perfect order.

If this is America, I am all for it. And we fall in too, creaking bones and all. Realizing that taking care of oneself is not a big chore, all said and done. A better way to live, since you no longer depended upon anybody. You did not have to worry if the maid did not turn up or if the driver took a day off. What a relief.

Where was all the workforce that we take so much for granted in Asia?
There was none I guess, not for menial jobs. Everyone took care of oneself unless one was terribly sick, handicapped or too old to move a finger.

Hence we learnt to manage the household all by ourselves, for the first time, and if our son found anything wanting, he said nothing. He was probably grinning to himself, `Well now,look at mom and dad . . .'

It makes me angry to think of the little things that one made others do, back home. To think of heartless housewives who encourage child labour by having nine and ten year olds around the house, to fetch and bring. To run after one's own children and do their bidding. To run petty errands from one part of the house to another when ones own limbs were in good order . . .

Are there folks inside

Birds I see and a lonely cat
No face to smile, wave or wink at

The windows shut and doors of course
Are there folks inside, friends or foes

Walk 'round the complex revives me
Is it the breeze, the tall fir tree?

Hello

Hello there