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| Arindam Roy |
He wasn’t alone in
his first home,
his mother’s womb.
It was a shared space
with a twin brother.
When he died, alone,
after 70 days,
which one
became homeless?
At two-and-a-half years
he was cast away
from home
to a Montessori school,
he howled and cried –
a homeless child,
for a few hours,
everyday.
The gypsy in him
left home and
its comfort.
he blew away
his security bubble,
in search of a
career in a metropolis
by the sea
he felt forsaken
forlorn, hungry,
tired, lost,
it was a chosen
homelessness
he had burnt bridges
he could not return to
his parents’ home.
Growth in career,
a rented space
shared with a new spouse.
After four years,
his karmabhoomi
became a new home
now, they had
two homes
they went to a home
and returned
to another home
they were
borderless.
The demise of
his father
made them return
to their hometown
girdled by two rivers
on three sides
but they lost a home
by the sea.
Later, they moved
from home to home
like a bee
choosing brighter
better flowers –
through hills and valleys,
rivers and seas,
plateaus and plains
they travelled,
vacationed
and worked,
leaving homes,
embracing homes.
They lived an eternity
in a moment,
and saw the universe
in a handful stars
Finally,
his mate and he
built a new home –
they owned
a fistful of earth,
a slice of the sky
her illness
snatched her away
from him,
after nine years
into their haven.
The wheel had come
full circle.
With children
in a faraway place,
his home
became a house
and he,
a homeless,
once again
a living ghost
in an empty shell.
Frail health
and household chores
exhausted him
worried his children
wanted him
with them.
Will it be
a clawed bit of earth,
a torn piece of sky?
Can he accept
a new home?
Can he stay alone?
Can he be
uprooted again?
A gypsy,
he’s forever
homeless.
Poignant! A story poem, woven with subjective elements,yet rising above the subjective...
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