I missed home in London,
missed Abertawe in Lancaster,
missed my father in the unwanted streets
of my asylum called mind.
I missed my laughter in this flat
I now call home,
that was shaped as such by him
I now call my brother:
A quick transition, I must admit,
from a stranger to an alien wind,
so precious for my life to sustain tonight.
I was awarded the Nobel in my dreams,
the Ph.D. followed-by, the smiles of
my dead father I see in the windowpanes,
and my stranger stood there, crying.
He celebrated India in my talks, though
Nepal was the place he aspired to be,
I no longer care about countries
as long as he is there, building my character.
The other night I saw Lucknow laughing at me,
Abertawe playing jokes on me,
the other day my brother left.
He’s still there, somewhere,
yet I await the knock on my door,
it’s a different kind of happiness I don’t
wish to explain, don’t wish to live anymore,
for I know it won’t last for long,
my ephemeral present tense.
It’s about time when I tell you that
my vulnerabilities have been risen:
this stranger has taken birth in
places reserved for men and women
judged and re-judged for years
in my idle hours of critiquing.
