My little town has grown big,
too big though for my nostalgia.
After ages we traveled and stood on the road
where once stood a small house with a tiled roof and unpainted walls.
Now the afternoon sun glared at us,
but we stood our ground and marveled at the atrocities of time;
the time that bent on erasing all;
all the signs of the house we cherished.
The house for which we traveled the whole day and the night
and landed at last on the spot.
There where once was our house now was a showroom,
a display of gaudiness and murky gloom.
There where once stood opposite our home
the little two-storeyed family-home of a friend
now held no signs of a house;
the house was razed to the ground,
It made way for a mall through which we traveled in and out
and on stepping out found ourselves
on the scorching hot cobblestones defying memory and recognition of the past.
That humid and hot afternoon cheated me
out of my links with the past
if it were not for a sudden
entry into a trance.
The afternoon faded into the memory of a dawn
and the dawn brought me the lingering smells
of the balcony and the road, the tongas and cabs,
and the luscious idle hours of the dawn.
I stood transfixed, looking and wondering where it had gone,
the house of my memory with a wooden staircase, the reluctance to hand me over to the world of the school and the strangers, the house where I waited for the sound of the horse's
hooves, the horse-cart which brought my parents home.
And I recalled there was a clock on the outer wall.
It could be seen from afar from the street.
An obelisk which for years had marked
the passage of time; the minutes and the hours
and the silent march
of time, neutral yet anxious to see us safe;
The morning when years ago we said farewell to the home and the clock.
A timeless journey, timeless thoughts.
too big though for my nostalgia.
After ages we traveled and stood on the road
where once stood a small house with a tiled roof and unpainted walls.
Now the afternoon sun glared at us,
but we stood our ground and marveled at the atrocities of time;
the time that bent on erasing all;
all the signs of the house we cherished.
The house for which we traveled the whole day and the night
and landed at last on the spot.
There where once was our house now was a showroom,
a display of gaudiness and murky gloom.
There where once stood opposite our home
the little two-storeyed family-home of a friend
now held no signs of a house;
the house was razed to the ground,
It made way for a mall through which we traveled in and out
and on stepping out found ourselves
on the scorching hot cobblestones defying memory and recognition of the past.
That humid and hot afternoon cheated me
out of my links with the past
if it were not for a sudden
entry into a trance.
The afternoon faded into the memory of a dawn
and the dawn brought me the lingering smells
of the balcony and the road, the tongas and cabs,
and the luscious idle hours of the dawn.
I stood transfixed, looking and wondering where it had gone,
the house of my memory with a wooden staircase, the reluctance to hand me over to the world of the school and the strangers, the house where I waited for the sound of the horse's
hooves, the horse-cart which brought my parents home.
And I recalled there was a clock on the outer wall.
It could be seen from afar from the street.
An obelisk which for years had marked
the passage of time; the minutes and the hours
and the silent march
of time, neutral yet anxious to see us safe;
The morning when years ago we said farewell to the home and the clock.
A timeless journey, timeless thoughts.
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