Missed Calls From Home

By Anoushka Sinha

My home, a hearth of cold fire,

Tormented by soft rain and darkness in dreary summers,

Knows me more than I shall have the luxury to.

The blunt sounds of worship, accidents, laughter and air,

The way they had me dreaming of nights spent in stations, waiting on ghosts.

I remember standing at the balcony on clear evenings,

Feeling Parisian drafts where Indian sweat should've been.

The low, acoustic echo of nostalgic rage traveling through walls,

Beyond the wallpaper,

Behind the mismatched, decorative paintings.

Always a whisper, a haunting from times we refuse to remember.

The forced lazy mornings, tea in hand, dogs barking in the living room, doorbell ringing (oddity in disguise).

Warm bathrooms from the air-conditioned days, haven for smoke breaks, micturative troubles and tears.

Fondness too fondled to not be cruel.

I can still feel Home's decay under my arms,

Between my thighs,

On my nape, that sweats in this weary make-shift modernized town.

There are no ghosts here,

Only the sun, 

Only the heat.

Not the traitorous cool burns of home.

Not the timeless drift.

I don't miss it.

I don't hate this newness.

But it would be a lie if I didn't say,

That home is where my heart dies.

And my, do I miss being dead.

By Anoushka Sinha