WHISPER OF THE HOME

✍️Nitesh subedi

In a small hut of east land with wooden-crafted railing balcony with a yellow, golden grain wheat field on the east. A tulip flower blooms out its whitish petals next to it; chickens are running down the lane; cows are grazing on the far lawn; and a dog is barking at the strangers who have just arrived from the long, worn-out journey.The silvery-haired woman stands there, peeking through the window of the smoky kitchen, with an innocence,strangeness, questioning, and concern gaze.

Maybe it is mail from her son, who is living in a city? Is my grandson okay? Is he doing well? Is he coming this summer? She may  look worried about it with lots of assumptions, but the traveler is unknown and doesn't even care about it. The man who was smoking on the balcony earlier climbs down the stairs to ensure and tell her about the stranger and letter. The man already knows that there was no letter from his son, and he also knows the heart of a good woman who is always concerned about others and her child.

He, with an old, worn-out dhaka on his head, stands there on the edge of his backyard to ensure the right direction for a strange traveler who was lost and just on his way to his destination and who doesn't even know about his son, who is living in the far city.

The airtight pot on the kindling fire whistles loudly, and she rushes back into the kitchen with hope.
The only thing she is curious about is her grandson in the mail, but at the dining table, the man will tell her everything about it.
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