I would walk on the
same roads.
Eat the same berries,
and rejoice the same
fragrance of jasmines
that reek nostalgia
of my village.
I would adore the same
cattle while they return
by evening and
I would be a little more
curious about the small talks
of women while they
fetched water from
the distant borewell.
If I could begin again,
I would fly the same kites
from near the village pond.
Hang with the same friends
with small dusty legs and
have the same thorns
poked in my feet while
I played with them.
But alas! The water from
the dam rose one day and
overnight my village got
submerged.
we got dislocated.
we're rehabilitated,
the government says-
But the absent hunger
in our full plates,
begs to differ.
So do the chirps of
sparrows that lack
authenticity.