The bus
stop is still the same
The yellow
striped black bench,
The banyan
tree that looks older than earth…
A pot hole
right in the middle of the footpath
The shack
still has a Char Minar cigarette adage on it.
The shrill
voice of the anorexic conductor- has not changed a bit.
The breeze
sharply smells of Gonga.
I was
home.
The hand-
which clutched mine, in a busy traffic street. Has changed.
Eyes that
spotted the first Krishnochura for me- indifferent.
The endless
addas on the yellow striped bench- bygone.
The false
step on the pot hole-not cared for.
The anger
which followed every Char Minar I smoked- absent.
The
laughter that caricatured shrill conductors- vanished.
Gonga was a
mere river- offering cold hug.
Home was
exile.
3 comments:
Finally! Your blog was missing you... :)
I know. :D
... :)
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