When the fruit grows, the petals fall off.

When man grows, memories fade off.

And yet, memories of an old home

Are never by the wind blown.

 

Those were the days when my grandfather

Had a beautiful house,’not a feat of architecture,’

As Dr Ampat Koshy says in a poem,

But a feast to the eyes, walls white-washed.

Time has preserved it and I have enhanced it.

Memories come flying and fluttering

Like pigeons when I enter it

For I have come to the source.

 

The remains of the logs that used to blaze up

To warm our legs in long wintry nights

Are still there lost in deep slumber.

The pots in which my grandmother

Cooked rhubarb, colocasia, tapioca are still there

And in them lingers the flavour

Of curries, hot and tangy.

 

I can hear the onomatopoeic mode

Of descriptions of actions, the spicy buzz

Which submerges me in content ineffable.

Ours is not a faux fireplace but a genuine one

Around which we sat listening to stories

Of angels and fairies, heroes and heroines,

All pure and simple, like quantum mechanics,

Producing deep inside us a sweet kick.

 

Every time I revisit it,

I can feel it brimming with unadulterated love.

I can see the hypnotic glow of the candles,

While the sight of objects

Keeps morphing before my eyes,

With melody and harmony in tune.

 

Domain of my dainty dreams,

You do create moments of epiphany,

Bestowing grace on my tender heart,

The seat of my poetic sensibilities,

While the synergy among

The clumps of jasmine bushes,

The  coral-pink roses, the vibrant bluebells,

The red-orange orchids,day-glow green grass,

And my childhood memories open

The vistas of a sober Truth.

 

Pramila Khadun.