Four evergreen Ashok trees with their dense foliage,
Guarded the brick red walls of the house of my childhood.
Along the same wall in the purple vine of the bougainvillea,
Chirped and chattered, a host of sparrows, in their nests,
Making merry in early spring mornings - as much as they could.
Rose bushes - red, white and pink, dainty shuilis and a mango tree;
Three big coconut trees and a towering areca palm;
And maybe there was a guava tree or was it a tree of neem?
Yes, there was a deep well too where the maid washed clothes every morn;
And they all lay in the backyard garden of this abode – once pleasant and warm.
The doors have gathered rust and so has the little iron swing,
Where my sister and I went flying, up the skies so deep in blue;
Shrieks of glee in our young voices, what had we to worry?
Cobwebs adorn the crevices and the pale-yellow walls have crumbled,
And vacant windows stare, the house of my childhood is in ruins, could it really be true?
I hear the murmurs and the laughter, in the playgrounds, in the rooms;
They waft in the air carrying memories in their wake.
I also hear a faint bark, perhaps of the dog that lived with us for fourteen years,
Where did we bury him? Was it next to the sugarcane tree?
Teary eyes and a heavy chest– what is this dull ache?
I recall the wrath of the ashok trees and the sturdy coconuts in the backyard,
When wild winds and raging storms of the monsoon befell them,
They swayed around, back and forth but always held ground.
Alas! One spring afternoon the areca nut gave in, and with it, the woodpecker vanished too;
One with a feathery crown that drummed its beak in the trunk of the mighty tree, lost in the mayhem.
I hear songs too – Oh! Thinkin’ about all our younger years
Of singer Bryan Adams – in that husky raspy voice of his,
Those were the best days of my life
My sister and I, sitting atop the roof of our house,
The smell of rain in the air, our souls unfettered – we felt bliss.
The aroma of mother’s local fish curry with hot rice,
Hurried us to the dinner table post nine,
As we all sat together – father, mother sister, grandmother and I,
With the radio station playing soulful melodies,
Lulling us into hours of blissful sleep thereafter.
And during unending hours of power cuts - we bathed in the moonlight outside;
How resplendent the night looked – the glow of the moon in the grounds;
Our wrists ached while we flicked the bamboo hand fans,
Smiles in our faces – as its gentle breeze caressed our skin and played with our hair,
Cast in darkness for hours – families would roar in glee as houses light up again.
The house of my childhood stands tall still, hollow and cold,
It lies somewhere in the dense jungle of concrete, lost and forgotten,
Bereft of inhabitants – of sounds of laughter and happy memories,
Like a guitar with a broken string or the tearful adieu of a beloved.
I often see the house in my dream and wake up –with inexplicable grief and fear.