There should be a hill outside
Your village. A narrow,
Walkable path up to the top.
There should be rocks, a lake
Fruit Laden trees and incessant
Rains to complain all season.
There should be an abandoned
Temple with names of lovers
Who didn't marry each other.
The old men and the young
Should talk about a vague ghost
That comes alive every new moon..
The adamant rusty hearts of boys
Who play cricket in such places
To prove them otherwise.
The grannies making papads,
Daughters going to schools.
Memories of making kites.
And years later when you
Return from a distant city..
The smell of crushed flowers
In wet tar, tickling your memories.
There should be a feeble heart
Blessed in you, that screams
Butterflies when you truly arrive,
To this place, you belong.