The land of mirror like waters,
ripples that extend to the edges,
beckoning austere souls to dive into its cool depths.
Trees bent with age,
waving crooked arms in the sombre evening,
telling tales of years long gone when men hunted for meat.
Lottery tickets lined like plantation trees,
catching eager minds and loiterers who believe in luck.
Behold! They walk away with lighter pockets and a fresh worry.
Abundant places of worship line the street corners,
Difference to the eye is slight.
(“That’s a church. No wait, that’s a temple. No, church…” )
Many a day have mine been fooled.
Looming bill boards and sloping roofs,
blue, red, green and white,
Every colour splayed with majestic advertising prowess.
Green direction boards herald the driver,
Often leading them to take a left or a right when not required,
Simply because it is either rusted or the lush green trees cannot help but take part in this game.
Twisting roads inching up to a peak and plunging down like a spiral staircase,
forever going around hair pin bends and narrow roads,
on the edge one lives, either the seat or the cliff.
A grandmother who slowly fades away in her home of fifty odd years,
who burns wood to cook lunch,
thereby delighting a thirteen year old who had lived within video games and EDM music.
Washed clothes that stay cold and moist under asbestos roofs,
or within the wooden attic filled with dust, a rosewood table and spiders.
Four days or more one waits for dried laundry.
The land that is ever in bloom,
Green and free.
We know not more than what we see and hear.
Political affiliations and leanings each have,
every individual with an opinion and an idea,
Alas! Seldom are they heard because twenty year olds don’t matter yet.
The whispers of this land have grown softer and fainter,
some say, “This is the onslaught of individualism.”
Long gone are the days of pleasant rain and abundant jack fruit
Pineapples and tapioca,
Rubber sheets and pepper,
All were harvested yielding profits, not losses.
The land groans and moans under the weight of liberalisation, privatisation and globalisation.
All I want is hot black coffee and silent tea fields of the yester years.