The dwindling paddy fields that define the contours of my nondescript village
The giant Banyan that sings paean to the village deity
The pristine music of the gurgling streams
The Kathakali songs that enliven gloomy evenings
The sour palate of tender mangoes and green tamarinds
Memories suffused with rain kissed thumpa flowers
The room that smells of ‘good herbs’
The tranquilising aroma of turmeric, tulsi and thali
Delicate fingers that run through these recalcitrant strands of hair,
meticulously disentangling intricate ringlets of knotted hair
Grandma's privileged touch it was!
The blissful luxury of a Navarathri holiday
The memorised array of Devi hymns
Books with skeletal imprints of dried tulsi and thechi flowers
The old Shiva temple with its intimate pebble strewn corner that I once calligraphed with letters
Will they ever coalesce into beautiful words with blessings from the mighty Gods?
That turgid feeling of soft, spongy mud intertwined with the memories of snake gods
The feeling that’s home!