Home – a ghazal

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That time of the year when people are heading home
A glittering tree, boxes with bows, welcoming you home

She stayed back in the hostel
This girl from the East, she was not returning home

I wish you could see starlings
during murmuration, flying home

She begged for that stamp on her card
No, she wasn’t heading towards, but away from home

For him, it is difficult
all this defining of home

Sometimes it is not a place,
but a person, centring home

Did you read about Mr. Biswas?
Mohun babu tried hard at building a home

What if I do not have one,
is their no celebrating for people without a home?

We mortgage our souls to heartless banks
All rise to the Middle Class, “roti, kapda, and buying a home”

I am thinking about refugees
Daughter of one, forever searching home

In Amstelveen, there are burglaries galore
All the gold hiding in Indian homes

Antilia towers and shades,
A sheet of tin flapping is also called home

The American ghazal lost the beloved,
its poets Ali, Sedarat and Rich, now pursuing home

“Why would you not want to invest in property?”
he said, “it is not just about owning a home.”

Oh shut up Das!, you make everything so intense
Grab a beer, learn chilling at home

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