Coming Home Sounds Like
stop. just stop.
here. right here.
wait. that’s it.
Wind in the peepals
rain in summer.
slowly now. ease on
Gowri’s lowing belligerently
“I’m moving, re!”; moving on
rocks ping brightly
sprightly red
earth crun—ssshh’s
duranta swishes
softly, slightly abrasively
against windows
my hair.
Locks chwip-chwip
bags slither and bump
and there. right there
thu-thump, thu-thump
against softly starched saree
sun-warmed veshti.
I’m home.
End of the Line
So many homes
have come and gone
my mother’s womb
my father’s lap
my grandmother’s music lessons
at the break of dawn
my dead grandfather’s
Dev Anand smile
Jal Vayu Vihar
where I refused to be bullied
Lohegaon and its
teeth-puckeringly spicy guavas
on school buses and patrel
on the kitchen counter
Coonoor—family ghosts and romances
beetroot sambhar and roast chicken
under bottle brushes
Sahyadri—dams, rivers
first loves, first kisses
Koramangala—
sister of my heart
drunk on strawberry tart
(at 14 mind you)
Madras (it’s never going to be Chennai)
4th, Murugan Arul, Sangeetha’s, Stella
whiskey in the quad
soulmates, cigarettes,
CV mama and dance
the settling of grace in my body
Jayashri akka’s terrace
silence sound
young soaring voices
RV—
I can’t speak about that.
Not yet.
Bhopal—my heart
My womb now
someone else’s home.
Not house. Home.
this space.
these words.
this poem
My home.
Editor’s Note: It’s difficult to retain the intended formatting, so images from the issue have been included to show the original intent of the poet.
Foreign 