I set out once,
looking for the mangroves
with haunted stories
about the withered woman
with feet that turned in and jingled
the mangroves
with secret spells
hovering over lamposts
the mangroves where
boys scuffled and
where men gathered
to grope for survival
the mangroves
that displaced the rotten
smell of burning flesh
as each canopy collapsed
into an ashen pile
I waited,
to enter the looming gates
of the house that echoed
my mother’s desires
in hidden gold and treasures
the house that watched, silent
the gates that creaked
each howling creak
recollecting a plea
pleas of bruised bodies
and naked shadows
still lingering behind
it’s walls
I walked,
the platform again
chugging wheels, that
recited memories of trains
moving like ghosts
between places, bringing ghosts
the platform I walked again
covered me in soot
of butchered history
I lifted,
some soil along with some scars
I opened,
the tall gates
and entered against my will
into the verandah
to my beginnings
I swaddled myself with,
the elegance of my mother
the industriousness of my father
the grit of my brothers
the sacrifice of my sisters
the flawlessness
of their songs
as they chanted, possessed
to their dead
and their crippled
and their humiliated
and their young, and new born
I bow in thankfulness
and accept the warm
tea served by the lady
in the verandah
NaPoWriMo 2018
Historical event
Kashiana 
It reminds me of visit to my ancestral house at Sillanwali in- Pakistan.
The stories of vanishing ghosts , beautiful fairies and transforming Nagins who so often followed my tall handsome father during his morning walks came rushing to my mind .A few hours stay there was like living through ages of glorious past of my parent
Have beautifully expressed the emotions of millions of us who had to leave their ancestral homes in 1947. Excellent historical piece of literature
Papa
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