By Bhavana Gupta
The breeze was soft, the sky turned grey,
I watched the world from far away
My balcony, a quiet seat,
Above a narrow, sloping street.
To one side, on the dusty land,
A home stood small, built hand by hand.
Four bamboo sticks, a cloth for shade,
A stove of sand, where meals were made.
A labourer’s home, no walls, no gate,
Just three small kids and hands of fate.
And opposite, in neat display,
A bungalow stood, proud and grey.
A car outside, a porch so wide,
Two children played with joy and pride.
Their mother watched from sheltered walls,
Their father laughed through garden calls.
And then it rained, at first, a song,
That gently pulled the clouds along.
The toddlers danced in either yard,
Both drenched and giggling, running hard.
Two little worlds, the same delight,
Their laughter rising, pure and bright.
But just beyond that fleeting cheer,
The weight of life became so clear.
The older child from thatched abode
Ran fast to save their fire and load.
He held a cloth above the flame,
His sister did the very same.
Together, through the pouring sky,
They caught the rain in buckets dry.
No toys, no games, no sweet refrain
Just silent strength beneath the rain.
And there, across, a pipe was turned
To mimic rain, for joy well-earned.
The richer kids, with coats and cheer,
Had no such buckets, no such fear.
They laughed, then left in cars so neat,
For ice cream down the soaking street.
While over here, in barefoot grace,
Two children worked with weathered face.
I sat above, my heart in pain,
To see two worlds beneath one rain.
Same sky, same storm, yet side by side,
Such different lives the drops divide.
And though no words were ever said,
Their stories echoed in my head.
Two childhoods in the falling grey
One had to grow.
One got to play.
Beautifully written
Well Said, keep it up👍