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Writer's pictureBasudhara Roy

Stitching a Home



How does one gather

things incognisant of love?

Things that strayed so far alone they

have no idea how to belong?


Where does one fit the rusted

keys of a house long sold, its

wheezing now watermarking

your dreams? Let us ask this


leper under the bridge, his

wife stroking his denudated

candle-stump of a leg, what

wholeness means. Beside him


is his weary, blind bowl and a

misshapen gunny bag they

call home. I learn from them

that home is not arrival, not


a place, not even hope or dream.

It is the union of time and mind,

of inhabiting the present with what

you are, all that you have. I forget


misery. Summon a mud-house,

leaking roof, second-hand bicycle,

worn charpoy, the neem’s shade.

Marry it all to the moment, call it home.


- from Stitching a Home (2021)






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