My Journey

I’m on a journey.
Years have passed,
The mode of travel has not altered,
Nor has the road.

The journey is a pile of narratives
Written here and there, point by point:
Of dharmashalas eaten up by motels,
Of Pathshalas sucked by boarding schools,
Of skeletons of damned vehicles,
Of dark pits in burnt and blasted road.

The road bends at some point,
And heads unchecked to the south
To touch the neighbour’s land,
And swerves back homewards,
Reminding of a shortsighted inmate.

The characters -- the co-travellers,
And their recollections:
Of being deceived amidst uncertainties,
Of helpless hot days in embargos,
And sleepless sultry nights in crossfires,
Dozens of security points,
Long lines, blood-boiling chidings.

I now muse on:
The journey, the road,
And vulnerable days of my homeland;
And stories of co-travellers:
Zeal of flying away in few,
Pang of fleeing the land in many,
Painful dream when asleep,
Painful reality when awake.

The road is the history of my country--
Of stagnation in unrest,
Of mobility in stagnation,
I live the narratives, for years,
The journey hasn’t altered.

Presented to NWEN: 21 Poush 2064