I sat under my dining table Of eight chairs and forty eight columns, It felt like a house with Windows, dust and unwanted curly locks. Sitting cross-legged on the white floor Reflecting my clothes, body and words I pulled my nails, sang little rhymes And hit the chair legs with my little thumb. Guests came, gossiped, recited tales Gulped tea and left with more stories, Some returned, others did not. I sat under my dining table, awaiting Plates, conversations and fuming- Black tea. It did come occasionally With my mother, father and few strangers. There were books, umbrellas, newspapers And sometimes samples of medicines, They sat like Victorian women in long gowns Who did not speak even after a tempest. I sat there morning, noon and evening Unaccompanied singing little rhymes.