of heirs and heirlooms

It’s a different home he comes to
Every night.
Sometimes it’s his father,
In a drunken stupor,
The money from his meagre earnings
Lying empty in a bottle.
At others, it’s his mother,
On the matted charpoy,
With her clandestine lover
From the street beyond,
Her day’s earnings, spent
On cheap perfume and
Jasmine flowers.

But it’s always the same,
In one way.
He comes back to an empty home.
Empty at the coffers,
Devoid of love,
And on many days, empty of food.

And he, the forgotten heir to
Broken heirlooms
Picks up the fragments,
Discards them
And moves on.

He survives.
Gives himself away,
Little by little,
Month after month,
To anonymous recipients,
Empty wombs
That yearn for heirs.
And in them, he sees
Belonging.


A few days ago, I was told that many poor students who want to escape their poverty and abysmal conditions sell their eggs and sperms every month. we talk of a glorious future but cannot nourish our present.