The village is not the same.
The jamun tree is motionless,
Dilapidated, covered with patches
Of coarse, dry grass and anthills.
Lying over, crushing the distant memories
Of string charpai and ludo-dice.
The roads have changed.
The gravel is coalescing
Under the scalding sun,
With the shimmering coal tar,
Thrust over the muddy deathbed.
The pond is still there,
Devoid of water;
Stripped of algae and buffalo.
The playground besides is prostrate,
Robbed of the choric howzats.
Sifting through the ages,
Staring at me.
A new array of stars has unveiled itself.
The leaves rustle more emphatically;
The past echoes more than ever.
The clouds project monstrous silhouettes.
For the night was never more monotonous,
To be spent reflecting.
The sleep was never beckoned for.
The sun is bit harsher,
Mangoes a little less sweet.
Orange ice has made way for
Chocolate and vanilla cream.
Cold-drinks may be chilled,
But the gatherings are not that warm.
Afternoons no longer swish away,
Mornings no more come sprinting.