Pardon, Marcel Proust. it is not our fault that you transformed one of our daily actions, into the title of one of your classics. sitting on this arm chair i am pondering about my past.
1960
in front of my house,
lies the road to nowhere,
silent, abandoned, with occasional bells
coming out of the passing bullock carts,
the roars of buses which comes very rare.
on sundays we sat by the road
watching passers by
and sometimes playing cricket on the road.
in the evenings people come to my house for hearing radio.
during the war my grandfather placed the radio
outside on the terrace so that everyone can hear
without peeping into the house.
there was a booming sound coming out of the radio,
when some one has pointed that the news were jammed.
our river was clean and the bridge great
with the arches resembling the crown of a king.
on holidays we catch cat fishes and crabs from this river.
and there were snakes also,
sometimes coming out of the small pores on the banks.
'they are rat snakes. not poisonous' mother told one day.
on rainy seasons the river will be in flood.
at the banks we will watch whirlpools
swallowing bits of every thing that come on their way.
one day a man was washed away
and the corpse found after two days at the estuary.
death by water was many, during those days.
the dead body will be upside down
with the head protruding out of water
and only an expert can identity it as a human body.
i always thought that it was the husk of a coconut,
when someone will swim towards it
and will take it out of water.
1965
the steep roads to our school, resemble a war zone.
the fortified entrance, the two soldiers at the gate,
the pine trees which ends in the immense structure of the church.
at the left there lies the martyrs of life and right the sea beyond.
we were a people in between the devil and the sea.
the cemeteries were always full of devils
once a football lost in those bushes and no one went in search
during exams we enter the cemetery,
places our books on those gleaming marbles
with whispers of the dead souls from under
entangled with the whispers of the sea breeze from afar
rains were really horrible
thunders, invading waves, flying tiles
and the whales diving in ecstasy.
on holidays we enter the fort
searching for the horrible darkness
hidden somewhere in the deep caves
matches, rubber tyres, cinders and everything
to hunt, to chase and to liquidate the enemy
deep in the cave we search the doors to return
we find thousands yes, thousands.
at the grounds we play hockey, cricket
and sometimes foot ball
and at the galleries overlooking the great rock
we waited for some escaped lovers making love
and once it was the police picking the trespassers
and yet in another it was the homos
with the trapped children from overberry's folly.
1960
in front of my house,
lies the road to nowhere,
silent, abandoned, with occasional bells
coming out of the passing bullock carts,
the roars of buses which comes very rare.
on sundays we sat by the road
watching passers by
and sometimes playing cricket on the road.
in the evenings people come to my house for hearing radio.
during the war my grandfather placed the radio
outside on the terrace so that everyone can hear
without peeping into the house.
there was a booming sound coming out of the radio,
when some one has pointed that the news were jammed.
our river was clean and the bridge great
with the arches resembling the crown of a king.
on holidays we catch cat fishes and crabs from this river.
and there were snakes also,
sometimes coming out of the small pores on the banks.
'they are rat snakes. not poisonous' mother told one day.
on rainy seasons the river will be in flood.
at the banks we will watch whirlpools
swallowing bits of every thing that come on their way.
one day a man was washed away
and the corpse found after two days at the estuary.
death by water was many, during those days.
the dead body will be upside down
with the head protruding out of water
and only an expert can identity it as a human body.
i always thought that it was the husk of a coconut,
when someone will swim towards it
and will take it out of water.
1965
the steep roads to our school, resemble a war zone.
the fortified entrance, the two soldiers at the gate,
the pine trees which ends in the immense structure of the church.
at the left there lies the martyrs of life and right the sea beyond.
we were a people in between the devil and the sea.
the cemeteries were always full of devils
once a football lost in those bushes and no one went in search
during exams we enter the cemetery,
places our books on those gleaming marbles
with whispers of the dead souls from under
entangled with the whispers of the sea breeze from afar
rains were really horrible
thunders, invading waves, flying tiles
and the whales diving in ecstasy.
on holidays we enter the fort
searching for the horrible darkness
hidden somewhere in the deep caves
matches, rubber tyres, cinders and everything
to hunt, to chase and to liquidate the enemy
deep in the cave we search the doors to return
we find thousands yes, thousands.
at the grounds we play hockey, cricket
and sometimes foot ball
and at the galleries overlooking the great rock
we waited for some escaped lovers making love
and once it was the police picking the trespassers
and yet in another it was the homos
with the trapped children from overberry's folly.
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