The old Bakul tree next to our gate is missing
The mildly fragrant Bakul flowers that would be strewn under the tree through the year are missing
Missing are the garlands that I used to string out of those flowers as a little girl
The bedroom of our beautiful concrete house sighs peacefully where once the old Bakul tree spread its fragrant breath

My grandmother smiles peacefully from a picture in our living room, her loving warmth is missing
Missing are her many stories, her gentle touch, the many delicacies that she would dish out for us
I enter my old bedroom, the old box with many a colourful hair clips and pins are missing
My old dolls and toys are missing, and the box with all my old letters and greeting cards

The thatched tin roof of our old house is missing and the sound of the pitter patter rain
Missing are the lazy rainy afternoons, the paper boats, the deluged courtyard
The simple pleasures of kichudi and maaach bhaja - a rainy day meal
The stories, the laughter’s and the indoor games. The happiness of a day wasted is missing

Annual summer break to Dadur Bari in Lucknow is missing
Missing are those long train journeys with mom and sisters
The screeching, whistling steam engines are missing
Missing are the hawkers, hot tea served in earthen pots, the rhythmic, dreamy slumber in a moving train

Smiling Dadu waiting for us at the station is missing and the exited and chirpy tanga rides
Didun and her many delicacies are missing, the home-made achars and aam papads, sandesh, moya, nadu and nimkees
The sprawling bungalow in the Railway Colony with huge front yard and back yard is missing
Missing are those khatiyas, those beautiful long nights under the stars
The laughing, fun-filled afternoons with cousins are missing
Missing are those trips to the zoo in a tanga with homemade puri, sabzi and achar
The Eagle who swooped at my puri and snatched it from me is missing

Missing and resurfacing is the little girl who cried and chased the Eagle away
Who counted stars at night and hummed to the music of pitter patter rain, who dreamt for hours of sweet nothings
The girl in me who’s too scared to walk down the lanes of her childhood, lest the sweet memories go missing!