A dot on the map, an ocean in the heart

The grainy sand,

The salty sea.

The deep dark waters,

The distant church knoll,

The rapid, milk white springs,

Descending down the stony mountain slopes,

The marshy swaps, exposing the roots of mangroves from the ebbed tides.

The bridges flanked with water on either side.

The rising sun amidst the ‘V’, of the  hills,

The sinking sun,

On its way to the ocean floor.

The humid air ,

The summer breeze,

The old rustic houses left behind by the Portuguese,

The open windows that open up to twine of creepers with their blossom pink,

The open fields with golden stalks that blow with the wind.

The ancient man selling fish on the market floor,

The hippies who stroll to a reggae rhythm .

The children jumping into the well with their screams turning into echoes as they touch the waters with a splash.

With stories, faces, and realities,

With football fields, backwaters and pastures clean.

When the day dims out,

And the night arrives.

When then summer breeze turns into a winter morning bright,

I return home,

To a land that might not look as promising,

But to a land encased in promising antiquity,

A land frozen in times that were good.

A land that from space looks like a dot on the map,

That from a descending plane,

Looks like a blob of green,

With the shimmering ocean

Besides it lay.

And now as I awaken from a slumber deep,

I realize that home is a kaleidoscope of dreams.

                                                                                                            Divya Swamy

                                                                                                                              4^th April 2014