Memoir of Summer

After ten long years abroad, I return to my hometown,

In the countryside near Bengal’s estuary, where Haldi flows down.

I sit by the riverbank on this sultry summer noon—

Thinking, a whole decade has passed far too soon.

The tidal stream stretches, serene and wide,

Its green banks still bloom with nature’s pride.

The summer heat clings close, heavy with breath,

And dusty lanes now shine like Roman roads beneath.

Though clad in development, the town still dreams,

Where the banyan stands, and earthy odor streams.

The river hums its perpetual hymn,

As noon wind sways by the grassy rim.

Some birds are chirping from a coral tree—

Mynah, sparrow, and bright canary.

A seagull circles, soaring high,

While Brahminy kites glide in the sky.

A kingfisher dives with a quiet shiver,

As ducks drift gently down the river.

The nearest grove bursts with summer fruits,

And sacred woods echo with bulbul flutes.

A few dinghies sail where the tidewaters are,

Boatmen’s songs waft from afar.

Teens laugh and splash at the river ghat,

While workers rest in a shaded hut.

Boys climb high in the mango thicket,

While others fill up a woven basket.

A lone chimney stands at the old brickyard,

Like a lyre gone mute without its bard.

There lies a mound, all grassy and bare—

From there, I glimpse an oil ship anchored near.

A sudden breeze sweeps the river plain—

The same that ruffled my hair at ten again.

It opens a rusty door in the mind,

And floods it with memories of every kind.

Back then, I was simply a child,

With dreams untamed and fancies wild.

We played all day by the riverbank,

Till the vermilion sun in the westward sank.

With mangoes in hand, down barefoot we strayed,

And the banyan, our fortress, cast cooling shade.

In childhood skies, more birds would roam,

Their songs like whispers guiding us home.

Quail in the grasses, lapwings in flight,

Owlets and floricans fading with night.

Parrots would sing in the papaya tree,

While we plucked lychees and ran carefree.

Maa would scold me when I lost my sight—

But I’d forgotten how her smile shone bright.

Hand in hand, we’d walk back again,

Our clothes still damp with river sand’s stain.

Twilight fell as nimbus rolled from the west,

Urging the weary sun to early rest.

A whisper stirred—it was the nor’wester’s call,

And shadows bloomed as clouds grew tall.

A chill gale swept the sunburnt land,

Scattering dust with an unseen hand.

Cows, goats, and folk all fled in haste,

While barefoot children joined the race.

Ferrymen sailed swift to shore,

As Haldi’s waters began to roar.

The more nostalgia begins to rise,

A mist of tears clouds up my eyes.

As I recalled, a raindrop fell,

And dusk crept in—so soft, so well.

The eternal storm bared its fangs at last,

The same old canvas from seasons past.

The same river, the same old shore,

The same wild storm we knew before.

Everything waits in the evening air—

Only I was no longer there.

I left too soon, with much unsaid,

The past still hums inside my head.

Regret and time like rivers spread—

Yet still I walk the path I tread.

One day, before my final breath,

I’ll come again — defying death.

To sit once more where mangoes fall,

And hear the Haldi’s twilight call.

I will return to my hometown,

By Bengal’s estuary, where Haldi flows down.