Homecoming.

We say we are growing old.
Running out of places; running out of new love and old fears.
In the meanwhile, old places that bore the brunt of half-baked puberties,
Do not seem to age.

They were old for a reason, those dark noisy lanes with the raw smell of hope,
As if the world was moving somewhere, as if there was somewhere to go.
Little white uniforms and stories from school at the dinner table were testaments of motion,
No one would be left behind, we knew.

Nowadays at late night parties by the poolside, we hold ourselves to the rim of our glasses,
And find faults with the world as John Oliver would do.
Motion you say, of what kind?
Let’s visit another country? Let’s play the piano?
Sometimes, we lie curled on our bellies on sultry afternoons, and read Che Guevara to each other.
‘There can only be so much revolution’, we say.

Our homecomings are now larger than ourselves, darling.
Larger than our stories at the dinner table.
To Dad’s bright eyed conversations about Kaziranga’s tigers,
We say,”Too young for this, too old for that.”