The Guest

At times I realize

That the country

Where I stay doesn't

Belong to me.

Here the rains appear strange

Petrichor smells foreign

They fail to make me happy

I wonder why!

I do love to see those huge

Red autumn-leaves,

They look beautiful;

But I've grown up seeing

Catkin flowers talking

To the feathery clouds,

Priests are hired for the

Durga puja which is celebrated

With enthusiasm and grandeur,

And I've also made friends here

Still a sense

Of emptiness prevails.

Where do I then

Really belong!

Cannot ignore money, good life

That's why I'm floating here

Singing the immigrant's song.

Despite the number of shops,

Neighborhood,

No matter how flawlessly

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I sing 'On the country roads'

Or a Jim Reeves,

If they don't find anything

They'd look at me, in a metro

They'd stand for miles

Yet not sit beside me

Or they'd simply say,

'O I love this accent'

Until I realize I'm a guest.

But when I go to my own country, there too

I'm made to feel like a guest

By my relatives, by my friends

They carry this for-how-long

On their curious faces

Even strangers look at me

So strangely,

The roadside teashop owners

Call me sir, they don't anymore

Call me by my name

As if I don't even belong to them,

No matter how flawlessly

I recite in my mother tongue

The lines of Tagore so dear

'Where the mind is without fear

And the head is held high'

Looking up in the azure sky.