An Ode to Two Saffron Walls

Walls. They tell stories unknown to all,
They whisper to me.
Perhaps, this is a story no one ever wrote.
The characters do not remember,
The world never cared.

I met two saffron walls with peeling paint.
In the last one week.
Each reminded me of the other.
They were so different in their similarities.
One, in a huge penthouse, another in a tiny top floor room.

Both had a terrace opening out into the sky.
Both were painted saffron.
The color of renunciation,
But, it was actually the opposite.
There was too much of the world in both the rooms.

Books, cellular phones that screamed for attention.
A peeping kitchen beckoning the hungry souls.
Both the homes were open houses.
Both had gracious hostesses.
They never turned anyone out.

Yet, the walls pulled me towards them,
The peeling paint and the wet patches,
Told me stories of lust, ambition and sometimes grief.
The bald white patch, the story of a party,
Someone had spilled curry and then, tried to clean up.

The shoe prints tell another story,
A wall, a woman, a man,
Held against each other in a tight embrace,
A small sigh that escaped,
Made the wall a witness of a passionate tale.

The walls, they laugh and mock.
They know it all and tell it as is.
The smokey patches tell the story of a wild socket.
It burnt when the lights were the strongest.
Like how life burns out unexpected.