A Letter to One Returning Home | Aditya Saha

The following poem by Aditya Saha from Malbazar, West Bengal was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Plant your steps softly dear

for the fallen leaves may look

familiar brown and homely old -

but the street has a coat of tar new ,

a new pair of potholes few steps

from the lamp post standing beside

 

Hush dear , don't fish out from

your childhood days of playing truant ,

the name by which you used to call that

street of your favourite sweet shop

beside that stout alphonso tree with

welcoming boughs and a shade of respite

nor don't you pay your dues in here

with your old notes 500 or 1000

( saved aside from what your relatives

thrust into your hands during the puja)

for they are good for naught but origami

 

 

ask that atm kiosk standing there

by the turn of this street

about how he had to cope up

with the unending lines from

dawn to dusk as the entire nation

stood sweating with bowed knees

and trembling upturned hands

just as one stroke of twelve on clock

on one cold November night

turned pockets of country men

to trash , as bunch of promises , men

and national assets sell out for cheap

 

wear your sweater tight dear

for the winds blow bitter cold

and not just the thermometer

but the gdp shows drops

however the jawans are on guard

in the glacier outpost of Siachen

surely you could learn a thing or two

of sacrifice and self reliance

from the brothers putting their lives in

the crossfire of hostile neighbour

 

Step aside dear , you might get lost

in the crowds rushing about

for they are seeking their identity

in midst of lists questioning their existence

temples and statues rising up anew ,

cities changing names ,

paper notes acquiring new colors ,

bills diverting your attention

 

Put on your mask dear above your nose

for many have lost their sense of smell

either in literal or in figurative sense of words

or like bio hazard many have been dumped

stay back in favourite corner of your home

( unlike the scores of migrant workers )

with a note of thanks to the farmers who

turn their sweats to keep your nutrition intact

you can afford to live on your bank

and stream the old Masakali on Spotify

for you are not locked up without internet