by Aju Mukhopadhyay
The Fallen House
I was in my prime youth when I left the house
flooded by different hues in different rooms-
satin blue of the sky and pinkish love-rose blooms
bright yellow of the sun in the stairs
youth-wild green in the balcony;
‘twas a grandiose affair
when every wall, each nook and corner smiled
each space exuded a sense of revelry.
After long long years, moving round the reverse gear,
as I returned
few gray haired guys here and there appeared
out of the window holes
the doors opened on their own;
entering, some creatures hurried past over my feet
flew out of the walls flocks of titmice
thick cobwebs held my progress;
there was hush, there were whispers
rising up from the fallen bricks
and dismal walls gray and dull:
“Unwanted guests, undesirable activities kept them busy.
The house was not maintained colourful and clean.
They could not welcome the king.”
There was a pause as the past I remembered-
“None lives here now”- the wind answered
blowing helter-skelter with smell of dust.
© Aju Mukhopadhyay, 2011
Last updated May 06, 2012