Do you know:
The last time I was home
amidst the green of the coconut palms
i was too young to understand
the wail of my grandmother’s death
which travelled the long corridors
and died down to a quiet whimper
one corner of the backyard…
Days later,
when the last of my grandfather
had been offered to the ganges
the front porch where once old man
in the languid glow of an orange twilight
gave wages to the field hands
was set ablaze by voices, petty
quarrels I couldn’t fathom then…
The house
was lost then together with the well
that went plop at every pebble
ripping its stillness and my
only birthright lay buried beneath a
pile of signatures and legalities
strange footsteps pattered the staircase
and from the windows strange
eyes peered out…
A decade later,
I lie awake at night and think
of taking you to the house that
was once mine but now lies
beyond the synthetic magic of words
fuller than the deft strokes
of an artist’s hands…
Juvenilia 