Homecoming

By Seher Pokhariyal

Nizamuddin was summer

and a homecoming (five years of waiting at that)

the smell of salt, the scent of sun-dried chillies

the sizzle and the swelter

the sort that cuts through skin

and makes its presence known

in every crevice of your lungs.

The feeling of an uneven path of dirt while barefoot

incense incantations and idyllic tulsi plants,

bamboo fans and steel tumblers—

a landscape of yellows and browns with a dust of

azure blues and lush greens here and there

the unforgiving sun with its heavy hands

on other bodies and mine

in its blinding golden embrace,

everything shimmers.

I am taller now and so are the wildflowers

that grow out of the gaps

in the bricks of the wall

that joins us to the Thakurs next-door

like an earthen telephone wire.

To again be together, kissed by sunbeams

to have eggs and puris and mango slices for breakfast

to drink cups upon cups of marigold light

to laugh and reminisce

to share stories of days gone by

with family

and neighbours

and old friends,

to let the white pigeons

kiss my cheeks and retreat to

the ceramic fountain when

they've had their daily dose of love—

are all

good, tender things.

I want to sink into this world

that has grown around me

stretch time till it cocoons me in;

but for now,

to stare up at the night-sky that blankets

this moon-drenched terrace—

up at June's starlight

where the smog capped constellations

spell out 'home'

is enough.

By Seher Pokhariyal