Nostalgia’s Embrace

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 In the monsoon’s gentle embrace,
My parents toiled with humble grace—
Wage laborers in the rain’s cool breath,
Facing life’s storms, defying death.

Sleeping on dung and jute-laid floors,
We dreamed beneath the thunder's roar.
Raindrops slipped through roof and seam,
Falling in bowls—white drops that gleamed.
Their rhythm still plays in my ears,
A lullaby of youthful years.

Mornings broke with cofee husk-brewed coffee,
No beans—just memory shining through.
Boiled kappa, rice with roasted  redchillies,
Simple meals, yet rich and sweet.

Clad in a tunic, plain and long,
Washed in the river’s bubbling song.
No school bag—just a plasticbag grip,
Holding hope on each small trip.

Umbrellas made of reed and leaf,
Tattered shields against the grief—
Taro and banana, dry and torn,
Kept us safe from rain and scorn.

Through mountain paths and streams we’d tread,
With soaked books and dreams we led.
Teachers' hands, both firm and kind,
Shaped our hearts and opened minds.

Radio songs from a far-off stall,
A tea shop echoing voices small.
TV rare, a glowing grace,
A nation stilled by a black and white  face.

Hungry friends, yet none alone,
Sharing bread and sticks and stone.
Innocence wrapped us, pure and wide,
No bitterness—just joy and pride.

Love bloomed beneath the roadside tree,
With stolen glances, wild and free.
Tears and laughter shared in shade—
The price of love so simply paid.

Fires lit the sandy shore,
Our laughter rising evermore.
Swings from vines, sunlit play,
Fields and hills our grand ballet.

Mulberries plucked with stained delight,
Summer’s hands in berry flight.
Swimming contests in rivers gone dry,
Boats that kissed the evening sky.

Casting nets with careful aim,
Fishing, dreaming, naming flame.
Onam came with fireworks bright,
Scorching days, celebratory night.

Chundan Boats split streams in festive beat,
Drums and colors, life complete.
All etched deep in memory's door—
A childhood I’ll forever store.

Now I stand, both grown and wise,
Looking back through misted eyes.
Yearning for those barefoot days,
And that quiet, sacred, rural haze.

The countryside—a treasure chest
Of love and life, and nature’s best.
But city lights cast colder spells—
A tale of comfort, masked as hell.

Yet in my soul, those days still gleam,
Stars that sing a childhood dream.
A melody of earth and grace—
Forever etched in time and space.

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