Of Chullahs and Cooking Ranges

What are you and where do I fit into your story?

What are you I wonder, for everyone tells me a different story.

They talk about grandeur and wonder

Some talk about pain and despair.

They show me conflicting pictures.

A woman on her death bed for she was too weak to give birth.

A woman on her death bed, her body unwilling to handle her excesses any more.

They show me pictures that confuse and amuse.

Bathrooms without doors

And lives shrouded in secrecy.

Who are you I wonder? Everyone has a different introduction.

The drunkard man stumbling into his house,

Or are you the one driving back?

Castles and riches.

Unpaved roads and poverty.

Beliefs and disgrace.

Mystical but real.

Shining bright,

But there are no lights

I walked into a house with one room and 6 people.

Again, a bathroom without doors.

Sari clad women or women clad in saris?

Monkeys and cows equal god.

But who does god equal?

One room and a chullah.

Five rooms, three people.

A kitchen plus storage.

I eat the rice they grew with my Thai curry.

Now there is nothing left for them.

What are you and where do I fit into your story?!