Nostalgia

Last night
I visited the home
Where I grew up.
In my dreams.
Everything was the same.
The ancient banyan tree
In the backyard,
The mossy outer walls
Of the old house,
The water hyacinth infested
Shallow pond,
Where people still take dips
In the small clearing,
On sweltering summer days,
And that road,
That goes by its side,
Still leads to the same
Tea stall,
Where this sweet concoction
Once fuelled countless debates,
On bitter cold winter evenings
Of my reckless youth.
As if time stands still.

Even in my dreams,
I was uncomfortable.
My allegiance
Like always,
Rested precariously on my mind.
Just as nostalgia
Was about to tip off the scale,
I woke up,
Somewhat relieved,
To my big city grey morning.
© 2009 Rituparna Das