Our belongings it was, once upon a time
All 21 boxes, now a distant memory
In transit over many months
Across waters to the Bay of Bengal.
In a shipping container, in solitude they lay
At a distant warehouse port, called Kolkata
Kept apart between borders and mountains
Whilst a dark play hovered in unkindness.
A mystery that could not be solved
During the terrorised reign of Corona
Hence reunited we are not
With the pieces of our previous home.
In them, memories drift of familiarity
Scent of blankets and fresh towels,
Touch of words, pages and books,
Feel of worn-in shoes and decade-old jeans
Sound of whistles from the loyal pressure cooker
Sight of Adiyogi, the heart of our home.
An old working table that meets all needs
A floor lamp that shines through the night
All and all, vanished into a nameless shadow.
What is left, only to remain, is but
A distant memory that was a touch of our lives
Their intrinsic value, shaped by familiarity
And the meaningful history they hold.
The treasure trove of authors, artists, sages and yogis
Collected over decades from across the globe
Printed words and knowledge to be passed down
Their absence lay bare in our new home.
The profoundness of Kafka, Dostoevsky, Gibran
The hilarity of Roald Dahl, Dr Seuss, David Walliams
The comical wit of Tintin and Asterix,
The wise texts of Sages and Yogis,
All that has enriched and informed lives for centuries.
Slip through the cracks of our palms
No longer our beloved companion.
Now Them,
Still with much love packed in those 21 boxes
Perhaps with hope and a caring deed of another being
To provide a place in the heart of Others
The books, to bring joy to curious minds and hearts
The cookware to fill hungry tummies
The blankets and sheets quell the shivers
The shoes to cloth little toes.
Let Them be a part of Others
For which they still have much to give
If there is enough care in the hearts of those
The Them that lies in the fate of unknown hands
The insides of these 21 boxes
To find another home, if not ours.
