Born at the edge of the town.

I was born at the edge of the town,

Where civilisation thins,

And wilderness begins.

Behind me rose the Forest,

Lines of Sal and Teak,

Standing tall like sentinels.

To my right was the old Graveyard,

With moss-eaten beds of stone,

Whispering in my ears,

You’re not alone.

On the last day of October in 1994.

Warm sunlight coursed through me,

Cajoling me to open my eyes,

And witness the gush of loving sighs.

But they never knew –

I had been awake all along,

Since the moment I was called into being.

My parents were teachers,

Sir and Aunty to the world,

And I had sisters two.

Together we went through

The bittersweet lanes of life –

Here at the edge of the town.

Monsoon at the edge of the town.

We lived at the edge of the town,

On vast parcels of empty forgotten land.

We did not complain.

For in that lonely kingdom,

We were kings.

Monsoon would roll in,

Right after spring,

Stealing Summer’s thunder.

Kaalbaisakhi, they would whisper,

As deep dark clouds,

Pregnant with rain,

Echoed celestial drumbeats.

Lightning stung our eyes,

Hailstorm ruined all plans,

And in that chaos,

We waited eagerly

For water to swallow the land.

Then came that first spell of rain,

And amidst the rising petrichor,

How our hearts danced with joy!

Papers were torn, boats were made,

Tiny hands shaping destinies,

For voyages yet unimagined.

I loved to watch my sisters,

Chase their paper boats,

Like Sindbad, they returned

Jewels of smiles on their faces,

The loot of their little sojourn.

And if the rain Gods were generous,

A transformer would burst,

Engulfing us in patient darkness.

We would sit by the window sill,

Counting thunders, and tracing

That streak of silver through the night sky.

By the flicker of the candle light,

Sir would work his magic.

And pulled us into a world

So fantastical –

Where Gods fought demons,

Birds spoke in riddles,

And sorcerer’s cast a spell.

By the flicker of another candle light,

Aunty’s kitchen would exhale,

Tides of aroma wafted through

The cool, moist air.

I could hear their stomachs rumble,

And Sir contemplated a pause –

And as if on cue,

The lights took us by surprise.

Windows cracked open ever so slightly,

I watched them drift to the land of dreams

Lulled by the pitter-patter

Of the sleepy rain.

Somewhere deep inside me,

A tiny drop trickled and vanished –

A heartbeat of my own.

Who’s there at the edge of the town?

Where are my manners now?

Let me tell you who I am.

Born at the edge of the town,

With a Forest behind me,

And sombre old graveyard to my right,

I stood upright

On that last day of October in 1994.

Maan Mani Kunj – they named me,

I was their dream. Their home.

My makers – Sir and Aunty,

Built me brick by brick,

But it is their love,

That has sustained me

Embalming my nooks and creaks.

Within my walls,

Laughter took root,

And tears found shelter.

In my hearth,

Their lives unfurled –

Like a monsoon bloom.

I held their secrets in my beams,

Their stories, in my shadow,

Their dreams, in my hearth.

Seasons changed.

And years folded softly into decades.

The Forest was sparse,

The Graveyard older,

The Town inched closer to me.

But I remained –

Steadfast and still.

I watched them grow

With the passage of time.

My sisters outgrew their paper boats,

Sir’s voice had become mellow,

Aunty’s footsteps softened

And slowed.

And then there were new ones,

A brother-in-law arrived –

Checking and tending

To my old, sinewy joints,

Claiming us as his own.

Then came a tiny-tot,

I was no longer the youngest.

His tender feet upon my heart,

Sent ripples through my aging frame.

His giggles –

The sound of music

I had forgotten.

He toddled through my corridor,

Babbled into my echoes,

And in his laughter,

I was young once again –

Dancing to the sweet song of life.

 Lessons at the edge of the town.

And then one day,

After thirty long years,

The Sun rose reluctantly

Over the thinning Forest,

The Graveyard looked at me

With sad, but stoic eyes.

The bed where Sir slept,

Felt heavier than the rest of me,

The air inside

Was thick with unspoken prayers.

He made his final journey

Outside my bounds.

My seams were bursting

With students from far and wide,

Mourning the loss of a gem –

Their friend, philosopher and guide.

Aunty wept into my corners,

My sisters clung to my pillars,

Warm tears pressed upon my walls,

Trying to wake him up –

The man whose stories

Lit up the dark.

And such is the way of homes:

We do not crumble with time or storm,

We crumble from absence –

From vanishing voices,

Voices that once kept us alive.

And as I prepared

To cry myself to ruin,

The wind slapped across my walls.

Like a whispered prayer,

I heard his voice:

My child,

Don’t be so dejected.

For such is the way of homes –  

You inherit each life that enters you –

Even if they come to go.

Every heartbeat

is like a new brick

to the fabric of your being.

So, stand tall, my child,

For you are Maan Mani Kunj –

The keeper of monsoons,

The cradle of memories,

My eternal legacy.

You have loved us through it all –

Long before any of us knew,

A house could love at all.

I wish I could make him stay,

But those were his parting words.

Words like his stories,

Dispelled the ink-black dark

Of despair.

Somewhere, water trickled through my pipes,

My heart was beating again.

I was born at the edge of the town.

But I lived there because of them.

Every smile, every breath,

Every faltering footstep –

They carved a home in me,

As much as I sheltered them.

And as dusk fell

On that long weary day,

I held my remaining lives,

Letting the cool, night breeze,

Carry their worries away.