Homeland after Eighteen Years - A 48 hour Travelogue

K L Chowdhury
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Homeland after Eighteen Years
Yes, it is just a house,
a ghost of what it used to be;
no longer the home
where my children grew up,
my father practiced law,
my mother indulged guests,
and my wife and I doctored the sick
with compassion and zest.
The garden has turned into a marsh,
stink and desultoriness ruling the roast,
the lawn taken over by wild grass,
the flowers by weeds!
O where are the roses and sunflowers;
where the marigolds and the mums
that bloomed here in wild abundance;
where the creeper and the vine,
where the poplar and the pine?
The neighbors have filled their lots,
and raised their ground levels,
their effluent gravitating into mine
turning it into a receptacle
for waste and brine.
The ground floor is dark and wet,
dampness rising to the bare walls,
and the paint peeling off everywhere.
The floors are stripped of matting,
the doors cracked and creaking,
the curtain-less windows a squeaking,
the bathrooms stained and stinking.
The living room looks sepulchral,
the kitchen fallen silent for ever.
Our bedrooms look like dingy cells,
the clinic a forgotten refuge of patients,
the thokur kuth an archeological curiosity
and the icons, idols and images of gods
gathering the dust and rust of time.
The power lines are in tatters,
the plumbing has run into rot,
the furniture and fixtures are all but gone,
gone the view of the Shankarachariya hill,
of Mahadev and the Zabarwan range,
gone too the archives and the library,
gone the paintings and the photo gallery!
What remains is just a memory.
No, this house cannot be my home,
for home is where the hearth is,
hearth is where there is warmth,
warmth is where there is life and love.
This place is lifeless, loveless and cold,
and filled with an overwhelming absence -
of the house deity,
of the inmates,
of the very soul
that makes a home.