November 2022
Bio Note: I have lived in my adopted country for twenty-four years, yet my heart belongs to India, the land of my birth. Having a three old granddaughter in another country on a different continent, I can now call three continents home. Most importantly, wherever my family is, that is the place I will always call home. I know I am home when the five of us, and the two cats are together.
Recreating Home
Almost human in their intuitiveness The objects sensed we were leaving home Going far away, the possibility of return, slim. Determined not to be left behind after sixteen years of gracing our lives they snuggled themselves into suitcases among the clothes and personal effects. The green Kashmiri carpet, the tall walnut lamp, the Indian dolls, the samovar, the hookah, the shawls, the small walnut lamps, the photo albums shedding their covers like snakes shedding their skins. No missing out on this adventure. Convinced they could enhance the experience, reduce the ache for the homeland, they travelled. Worth it to endure the cold in the hold of the plane Only the luggage restrictions could limit home or more objects might have made the journey. The Book of Children’s Bible stories decided it was too heavy Though it was worth its weight in gold. The Beatle’s song ‘She’s leaving Home,’ hums in my head. Father’s words, “ Stay and do something for your country.” Three flights and countless miles later Buying an unfamiliar brand of milk from the convenience store across the park The urge to make chai, the stamp of every Indian Sans chai one is never fully at home, The owner wanted to know where we learned English. Then there was that object That travelled unbeknownst to us The door from a friend’s home a separation of living room from dining room installed itself, picture perfect, transforming magically into our magnificent sunroom door memories of friendship in the smell of its wood, A door can make you feel at home! The only things we couldn’t bring Were the mountains, the valley, the mists the smell of the pines, the roar of the panther, the paths covered in soft seductive red as the Rhododendron dropped their flowers the chai shop at Jabarkhet on Tehri Road where a cup of tea for a small price Included the splendor of the Himalayan mountains A glimpse of the plains of Dehra Dun between.
Pájaros en la Calle
(Birds in the Street, in Spanish) For my granddaughter, Amelia In the Land of Eternal Spring, my granddaughter, not quite three yet stands by the window in a hotel room her hips swaying in a dance left to right, left to right, round and round. Suddenly she calls to her father ‘Papi, Papi, pájaros en la calle.’ He rushes to the window a bird swoops down from above falls gracefully to the street below. ‘Pájaros en la calle’, she cries repeatedly, pointing to the bird in motion. The bird keeps swooping from sky to ground Seems to put on a show just for her It has caught her excitement. In another city in another continent I stand at the kitchen window watching a bird with a long pointed beak flaming red underside, singing sweetly on the roof of the neighbor’s garage that juts out onto my backyard. I look up a book of Canadian birds I discover it’s a red breasted Nuthatch. I say to myself ‘pájaros en la calle’ The little girl is a poet with perfect imagery A birdwatcher like her great-grandfather! Someday I will read his poem “Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher’ to her She will understand the bond, I know. I have yet to meet my granddaughter My new home is where she is where there are ‘pájaros en la calle’ Where there is poetry, dance, and mountains Love of a pure and undistilled kind. My imagination has bridged the continents The birds in her country are different From the birds here where I am Their songs of love may sound different There are ‘pájaros en la calle’ in every land Only one little girl Leaves me yearning for that home In the land of eternal spring.
©2022 Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
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