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.