Home and the World


There was a story from far Bengal thus titled;

This poet loved his home

And it also meant his homeland.

I long to return home

When I have had enough of the world

Or the world has had enough of me.

The world defines what I get

And I define what I give.

Such is the transaction

In this vast planet of business.

 

At the end of the day

I return to huddle in my nest

Or sprawl to my full length.

Here I am myself,

Sans witness, sans judge.

 

Here I feel brave to take on the world;

Where I do not see my image

In the eyes of a zillion faces.

Here I laugh aloud at the fool’s myth

Who claims the world is his home

To carry out his selfish will,

Till the angry gods make the sky

Arching high over him fall, filling

His world with its pieces,

Making him retreat to his nest

To ruminate over his folly.

Home is both comfort and clinic,

Things so readily forgotten while

Claiming a larger unearned home.

 

One is master but in the nest

One has feathered on one’s own.

The long wand of power is a prismatic thing

Dispersing greater fears coming one’s way,

Bringing counter-strokes that can bring down

High-rise nests over trees on citadels.

 

One who loves the home, and also

The wide world without bane,

Is most human of animals and

The real inheritor of the world.

As he walks out of his threshold

He steps into the Eden he has nurtured

Where no serpent dares sting the wise

And no Eve heeds his low treatise.

 

 

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