Rich in Small Things

They live in a house that hums with warmth,
Walls close enough to hear each other’s dreams.
No marble floors, no chandeliers gleam—
Yet laughter spills like sunlight through the seams.

The husband counts coins, the wife counts blessings,
Children chase kites stitched from old newspapers.
A meal of rice and rasam feels like a feast,
And the aroma of home is worth more than gold.

They ride the bus, pressed shoulder to shoulder,
Sharing stories with strangers who smile back.
No tinted glass, no traffic rage—
Just wind in their hair and songs in their hearts.

Festivals bloom in their kitchen’s glow,
Hands dusted with flour, shaping sweets from love.
No store‑bought boxes, no glossy wrappers—
Only the taste of tradition and time.

They find joy in borrowed books,
In rain dripping from the roof,
In the hiss of pressure cookers,
In the chatter of neighbors through thin walls.

Poor, perhaps, in wealth—
But rich in belonging.
For in their world, happiness is handmade,
And every small thing is enough.