A New Place

I once knew London
The London of my parents
The city of my grandparents
The city of Thames
The London of Cockney
And the city of posh
But it soon was strange
All was strange
In the London I once knew
With the memories of my grandfather
Far from my past
With the memories of my
Parents swallowed up
Fast by the new London
I couldn't like it
I knew there was nothing
What I knew was old
It was old and remote
It was also irrelevant
What I looked at
Was the stories I had heard
The stories told in my childhood
The stories my grandfather told
By the warm fires
In the warm sun
It was the stories from India
London was not my place
No more
Any longer
But I found a place in the stories
It said it was in the hills
It said it was a town
A town in the hills
Perhaps a place in Kim
The town of narrow roads
The roads sometimes snaky
Between the lines of chinar  trees
Its people simple
Unlike the highlanders I knew
I took the town to my sleep
I woke up to the town
It was forty years ago
That I made up my mind
What was dream
Is what I live
In it I have grown old
But the place still excites me
Like it had when I was in London
I like the sailing clouds
Over my cottage
Between the chinar
And  when they are gone
The rain claims
It’s different  from the one
You find in the cities
In the cities I knew
It’s just a shower
That bathes the place
From the window
Where I sit with my pipe
And a book on my lap
I watch the rain
Once it left no sign of return
The chinar looked parched
The winding narrow road seemed cracked
The mosses turned brown
The bird chirped in the distance
No soul was seen around
The rangoon creeper climbed no more
The roof untouched for long
I hadn’t known it
Thought it had betrayed me
Thought  my memories had been stolen
And it was withering
The air was hot
And it carried dust
Its smell I hated
But it filled the place of my grandfather
With heavy heart
In a humid night I slept
By the window in a chair
I dreamed a different place
Yet it was so alike
I dreamed that it had found
The rain in there
I needed a sheet
Yet I couldn’t get up
I was on the border
Between dream and reality
The reality that visited the dream
The reality that fetched the smell of earth
The rangoon creepers glistened
Yet its leaves beaten by drops
The mosses changed colour
The road now distinct
Its chinar lines washed off dust
The birds chirped no more
But they had returned
From the window
It was a thick veil
Nothing moved
But the swaying furry chinar
It had brought a spell
It had cast the spell
The roof emitted din
The din of spray
Sometimes the din of bigger drops
It had seized the place
It wouldn’t relent
Until it had shone the grass blades
Until it had shone the leaves
Until it had washed the place clean
What place one longed for
A place on a hill
A place from where all was visible
It was all day long
It was to last all night
In day it was to wash the dust
At night it was to drain the dust
By noon a little girl came prancing
She was alone in her rubber boots
Alone under the pink umbrella
She stopped where the hut was
The hut where the old man
Sold black tea and snacks
Later a different noise was heard
It was a lorry
It looked a crawling beetle
With its back bulging
Rumbling it crawled up
Struggling it stopped by the hut
The rain stayed
The rain didn’t relent
It was the same rain
With the same strength
It was the same sound
The sound of din on my roof
The rain that silenced the place
The quiet place surrendered
I sat by the window
But it ebbed at late night
Allowed the crickets to chirp
Allowed the frogs to croak
But the birds remained silent
The frogs were louder
The black sky lingered
Its layer thickened
As though it was for another downpour
It was marshalling its might
The place wouldn’t be same
The place would be green
The birds would return
The mosses would turn green
The chinar would stand shining
The road without dust
Soon the quiet villagers would gather
For tea by the hut with rising smoke
His grandson would come barefoot
Unlike the prancing girl
His left hand carrying a cup
And from the other a kettle dangling
His pattering steps
Wouldn’t be heard
But his soft whistle
From the tiny mouth
The black steaming tea
With a piece of lemon floating
Must be waiting
I had come for this
I had come for the place
In the stories
My past seems remote
My present is succinct