A Distressing Smell Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Just now I got a smell of smoke
resembling that of burnt straw,
instantly I travelled back in time
more than fifty years ago -
to my ancestral house,
yes, the house, the air, the dust
they are here before me, now.

The house exists - dilapidated, deserted,
hardly anyone considers it his own,
once upon a time it was everyone's
now it doesn't belong to anyone -
everyone stakes a claim on it,
no one finally arrives to take it -
the giant reality has grabbed an idea.

Yes. Idea of a house.
What is a house made of?
Clay, mud, straw, tin, sand, cement, bamboo,
you may name a few more things,
rooms are made, designated, occupied,
thus a house is made, built, structured,
gradually the house is born.

Yes. A house is born.
In heart and mind.
It fills the space, spreads its roots,
only a few can see it organically.
Just like a living organism, a house dies,
Death of a house -
painful. In many hearts!