An old house...and...ancient me.

A red oxide floor,
A long corridor,
And a 'thakur dalan'
Primarily these sections
Of the house
Stayed like photographs
In me,

Everytime i go through
Those snapshots
i am brought
To an era,

The corridor was long
Till it bent to catch the stairs,
And just beside
That specific corner
i had met books
Neatly stacked
In an old almirah
With glass full of ancient dust,

Oft i sat on the mat
And read varied things,
Touching ornate carvings
On blackened aged doors,
i had several times reached shores
Of times not witnessed by my eyes-
But i felt how an old man there delved
Into scriptures, doctrines and medicine,

And breaking bookish pursuit
Sometimes would an owl hoot
Speaking words not fully understood,
But the red oxide floor had maps of childhood
Written all over like thin hairlines,
Reminding me house another
Where i once learned to walk
Holding onto walls lime washed,

And then the 'thakur dalan'# like a dream,
Would come in shape of a smell perennial-
Of camphor and incense sticks,
Of old algae ridden bricks,
Of flowers, copper plates full of sweets,

And i become ancient.

#thakur dalan: a courtyard where commonly the deity of Durga is kept and worshipped)


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