Urban Trysts

Memories of Ranchi

I was 8, stuttering and imaginative,

Entering a land that was known yet unknown,

But to my surprise ma found us a home,

It was only a room,

But it was filled with books and love,

Anger also perhaps,

After all it wasn’t easy to fight patriarchy at work,

And single handedly raise a girl child,

I wasn’t exactly a role model nor completely wild.

I understood her sorrow,

Her laughter made me happy,

After all 4 walls couldn’t limit any of those.

We didn’t own much back then,

Nor did we feel outcaste in a city that was not ours.

Our landlord became a foster parent of every sort,

A burnt geyser didn’t falter their love,

Nor did their house stay limited by that one room,

It seems we lived those years solely on love.

Sundays were full of conversations over steaming, hot meals,

There was enough for us and them,

But wait it was never us and them,

There was no power at play,

Or authority imposed,

It became a bond strengthened by love.

The warmth of their hearts,

My grandparents in a different lot,

I was too young to call them anything else,

We stuck to Upor er dadu and dida and that became the call..

My childhood was full of transitions,

Their home a gentle Balm for my volatile dispositions,

Never did it seem like an imposition,

After all love broke every mandate or tore down any condition.

I laughed when I came home from school,

I was the new kid and bullied a lot,

Much of it wasn’t my fault, I tried hard to fit in at school,

But at home I felt like a tiny fairy queen,

Dida’s kindness was the soothing comfort a tiny heart ever needed,

Dadu was strict but the genuine kindness outshone through his discipline..

That house became a home,

It made me feel loved and cared for,

That’s why they say you don’t always define love through blood,

And sometimes special relationships thrive on care,

After all the dwellers beyond the gates of that home knew only how to share…



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