The Lost Home

I lay on the ground
Under the big apple tree
My arms spread and eyes closed
But I breathe free

My heart is pounding heavy
Due to the long cricket game
That me and my dear friends
Play every now and then

The aroma of cinnamon coming from the kitchen
Tingles my hunger sense
“What delicacy must mom be cooking?”
To find out I climb the fence

Dad as always, is in the porch
Reading on his rocking chair
But looks up to stop the running me
And playfully runs his hand through my hair

My home would often have guests,
Friends and relatives coming over
My little sister’s laughter would echo in the big hall
While I turned the TV volume lower

We have a lovely little kitchen garden
And a cupboard full of books with a biggest of worth
My home is the most beautiful place
After all it is built on the paradise on earth

But all that is gone now
What remains is a memory
Of that most beautiful place
Standing in all its glory

I now live in a small room
With no book shelf or an apple tree
I am a refugee in my own land
Can I even breathe free?

My childhood is left behind
And life has moved on
We are creating new identities
But the “Kashmir” from Kashmiri Pandit is gone

Leaving behind our homeland
We have gone to Delhi, Dubai and even Rome
But I wish to go back to the paradise again
Go back to my lost home

Inspired by Rahul Pandita’s book
“Our Moon Has Blood Clots”

--smita