Fresh smell of wild herbs in the perambulation uphill,
Oh! Those clinging burr to my dog’s fur,
I remember the sound of the crushing dried leaves,
That was heard in a walk through the dark dense woods,
My uncle lived next to the forest.
Bright sunny afternoon it was-15 summers back.
He had a wooden house with a stiff staircase,
Cracking sound it made in each taken step.
It was an abandoned house, closed for 10 long years.
The ornamental marigolds bloomed in the front porch but those were white.
The cucumbers were at the back.
Plums to peaches and maize’s to pumpkins
All untamed and wild-
But the tastes were inexplicable.
Now the jasmine smell lingered the house.
The house could crumble down with the motion of the strong wind.
My father had a key, which I stole to sneak a peek to the house.
Dried old maize’s were hung inside,
A castle was weaved out of fine thread and spider was a king.
Rats cut some papers into million pieces and gave birth to trillion babies.
The cupboard had no cups and it was covered with dusts.
In another cranking sound, I reached the kitchen.
It was a mud’s furnace with two burners.
My elder sister rejoiced with joy when I ignited the fire.
The house turned smoky and we poured water to the fire.
Dangling with fear we reached the porch and stole some peaches.
Meanwhile, my furry dog was covered with burrs.
We spent time in the shady porch.
Plucking and unraveling every petals of white marigold.
And removing the burrs stuck on our dog’s fur.
Siblings of 7-8 years of age were filled with waywardness.
Meanwhile, mother came looking for us.
Saw the dog, the smoke and the unraveled petals.
My clever sister told her about my idea and ran towards our address.
I alone got my bum jostled with a broom stick, she took me home.
In Ruskin’s birthday week,
I write about a wooden house where my uncle lived.
My uncle is slowly turning eighty and I, weighty.
Today, I will narrate him my poem;
15 years ago he narrated his to me.
( Dedicated to my uncle, my mom-dad and to my sister.)