I always wanted a thicket in the backyard
A verandah facing the forests in monsoon
A terrace where I could fall asleep
To the sound of a peacock in its bloom
Entire rooms with cupboards stacked
With regional paperbacks and antiques
A rocking chair that could date back
Creating some space for my fantasies.
I wanted knowledge of the arts
Passed down to me through the aroma
Of my grandmother’s incense sticks
And stories that cut through social
Barriers proudly poking out of the spines
Of my ancestors as they struggled
To keep up with their time, I wanted
Dusty corridors just as they come
Little poets, now dead, on the last page
Of their damaged botany textbooks
Half-blood relatives that have eloped
Meeting halfway in different corners of the world
The tinkling of nostalgia tied around my feet
As they move through the corridors of my dreams
Some fungi-laden wells, and ghost stories to tell
Drawers that pull out to expose little horrors
That I have grappled with for long
Before leaving them behind.
So when my grandmother calls me home
I look up at the first storey house that was:
Where I first mispronounced the word July
And heard of how important it is for men
To be able to feed themselves, and cry
Where the concept of privacy was obscure
And guavas grew right next-door
Where I first got frightened by a cockroach
Where we knocked on doors, then roared
And heard bitter stories laced with power cuts
Followed by the urgency to keep insects outdoors.
– And think about how the world moves on:
From the first storey three-bedroom house
To a ground floor mansion with parking space
From verbose anecdotes to still photographs
That move around in binary codes
From celebratory gatherings at midnight
To cramped long weekends that feel like a chore
From slumbers under the summer skies
To one air-conditioned room only – for the better
From,
The Obliged