It’s in the smell of wet earth

That carries me across time and space

To a thatched house in the field

Where a gentle wind caresses my face


It’s in the temple noises, welcome and divine

The bells and chants of people and priests

Grandma’s white saree smelling of sunshine

Her benign countenance making believers of atheists


It’s in the torrential downpour of this unknown city

That reminds me of the boat that ferried me home

To the wrinkled arms of the old lady with expectant eyes

Across the angry waters of the swollen river


It’s in the smell of dried roses on the window sill

In the rustling of paper and scribbling of quills

It’s in the quiet of the night and trilling of notes

In the break of dawn on a lonely walk on the shore

In whispers of voices lost to time, or the world

In footsteps of feet that no longer tread

It’s a bitter-sweet feeling

Like the last tear of a healing heart

Nostalgia, folks, is a bouquet of emotions.



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