The grown up child,
Breathed nostalgia.
As he witnessed,
The old black up and down switches,
On a wooden board.

Smell of the old hometown,
And grandma’s room.
With cracked yellow walls,
And an air that reeked of broken dreams.

The slowness of snail.
In grandpa’s walks.
The quiet afternoon,
When everyone’s asleep,
Mom snugs the child for a nap,
But grandpa gives him pennies,
To buy chocolate and come back.

The tiny grocery shop,
With shutters down.
Looks at the chocolate-hungry child,
Pissed off yet gives off a smile.

About a 200 meters,
A funny childish jumping walk,
Two steps left and two steps right,
Touching the cement wall,
With ants marching with their prey.

The warm heart of grandpa that,
Had the patience to repair the television set,
Unused since months,
For the child,
To watch the cartoon,
And for the grandpa to feel the joy,
Of watching the child laughing.

The nostalgia of the white painted walls,
With calendars on them,
Of his friend’s shops.
The noisy big fans,
And the hidden Monaco biscuits,
In a hidden storage wall.
The smell of old spice after shave.
The dirty mirrors,
And chunky locks on cupboards.
Bindi stuck on walls, of his late wife.
The smell of oily hair,
The silence of card game evenings.
The distressed wobbling stools,
Housing the old landline telephone,
The circling numbers,
Hovering down memory lane.
Tick-tock.

The freshly made paranthas,
The distinct fragrance of it,
Other than the mother’s food.
The smell of leather,
In the basement factory.
The rewarding imported confectionery,
In aunt’s fridge.

The grown up child,
Breathed nostalgia.
Passing through the ancestral home,
Passing through the park,
Where a dog mistook him for a bone.

The grown up child,
Breathed in,
The treasure of past,
That only reeked of happy memories.
And not of the burdening worries.
Of the grown up child.

-uk