Sunday 26 September 2021

The Room Next to My Room


Bharati Varrier

The room next to my room

is a wee too perfect.

Bed is made,

pillows fluffed

to good shape,

everything well in place.

No clothes are in disarray

nor books lolling open

or closed,

no bags half unpacked

or packed

in happy repose.

Wardrobes are a surprise,

all in perfect order,

tidy too,

curtains are quite drawn,

no laundry overdue.

The gadgets are amiss

and their crazy complexity

of cords – 

a network on their own, 

a tangled web of sorts.

The room next to my room

is flawless,

or almost,

like a nest

of small chirruping birds

that grew their wings and left. 


[This poem is an excerpt from "The Attic & Other Poems".]


  1. Stitching feathers is an art that mothers so carefully, indulge. So meticulously woven. And as the wings gets strength, they fly away - a MUHOORTHAM in anticipation for the mothers dream decorated in the rooms looks empty. WoW woW 😮😳 Wow - apt poem for today. Regards,

  2. Reading this gave a feeling of void of sorts. That emotional thing.

    1. Nice to know that you could connect with the poem.

  3. Awwww.....heart wrenching! My birds have flown away! Can relate to this. Beautifully expressed, Sujatha.