The land of my dreams.
The fantasy that was my childhood.
I look out eagerly from the passenger seat
At buildings and banners flying by
And search among them
The remembered past.
The fabled streets and the taste of sherbet
The many hued halwas
And sweet faloodas
Flash before me and yet I
See them not;
I try to knead through abstruse reality
And am faced with surrealism,
Illusions of my own making.
I step into my dear aunt’s house
House, not home, mind you
For this is not home
Not this majestic monstrosity in white
With the perfect wooden floors
And the crystal chandelier
Surrounded by limp manicured shrubs
Ordered to stand to attention;
Home was where the flaky paint
Showed off marks of dirt and crayons
Where broken tiles and low parapets
With ageing wisdom
Nestled my young limbs
While mighty trees swung their shade
Along walls where wild bougainville
Climbed and bloomed
In a frenzy of colours
In the direction of my fancy
Where cats, no less than nine
Joined in to play with abandon..
I roam from room to room
Struggling against my senses
And clutching at the scattered pieces
Of a child’s memories
Afraid to let go
Lest I should lose myself.
A lonely tear strays out of my right eye
And wanders, a vagabond on a misled trail