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This is home too

Beats reverberate from different drums from all over the room. There's chatter to accompany it, people yapping in twos or threes.

Then laughter.

And the drums begin again. The beat is a faithful companion. The words are like fleeting lovers, a hint of a touch and off they go. They are hardly audible above the drums until they go high, before settling down again into whispers.

The beat has sped up now. Hands are high in the air, the circle of dancers being moved by some irresistible force. Hands and bodies swaying to a beat; words more whispers by now, rising and falling to their own rhythm.

E i g h t e e n m o n t h s .

The people in the room are meeting, together, after more than a year and a half.

It is sinking into the bones, much like the beats are. The breath is slowing down, even as the beats are speeding up.

It feels as if i have returned to a home after a long time away.

Tension is draining from the body as a guitar joins in the person playing it seems to have not a care in the world strings lilt and twang of their own accord they dance to their own imagination.

"Shimmy," "jive," "belly dancing" -- words float through the delirium and softly land on a floating cloud.


A yawn.

This is home too.


Published by appamprawns

soni writes about children and people in controlled spaces, in his quest for appam stew. homi writes in the hope of being able to buy prawns to make patiyo.

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