Flying home with mother by Pankhuri Sinha
‘Flying home with mother’
I saw the photo caption said
And remembered, I just wrote it!
And wondered if it needed editing
Some adding, some betterment of words
To convey the real thing
Perhaps, another word for home
(Is there? Can there ever be?)
For I wasn't going home
How coud I ? Home was far away
And one's 'native place'
Doesn't automatically become home!
Suddenly, after the long migration abroad
And a near forced return
Let 's leave the long story
And all theory, and talk about home
Home the sweet, home the eternal, home the haven!
With books and spices, neatly stacked
To be easily found, for a home was to be ready
For a walk in anytime!
You see, having lived on a road called sweet home
For a long, long time, its quiet unimaginable
That one won't be able to return
Return home, yeah, that 's right
Just home, my home, not an immigrant home
Not home abroad, but home where I belonged
Experimented with food and cooking
Drink and dancing
Sipping strangeness, tasting newness
Cherishing the old, reinventing the ancient
Where one could walk for miles in the woods
But the library was just walking distance
And contained all one could look for
Of course, book shops have their own charm
Uncontested! And the public sphere
With endless choices, but
Excellent spots both, for finding and loosing oneself
In books or in the woods! That’s what felt like home
Our built up abode in a foreign country!
One can never forget, the aroma
Or the feeling, the thrill of perfect
Belonging as arrivals
Alien people with strange customs
That even differed
Belongingness was always
Contested, and didn't have to be agreed upon
But perhaps guarded ! How do I get back to that home?
How can one's home, suddenly get out of reach?
Bilingual Indian poet and writer. Ten collections published and many more lined up. Published in many journals, anthologies, home and abroad. Won many prestigious, national-international awards. Translated in over twenty six languages.