Give me my stick,

I want to walk back to that morning,

When the bread bakes in the kitchen over the din of many,

And the plump tea cups with milky smile at the top,

Wait in patience upon the table,

Topped with silvery sheet.

Give me my stick,

I want to walk back to that afternoon,

When the radio plays the drama,

Reclining in the lap of languid Sunday,

Dizzy with the smell of overripe jackfruit.

Give me my stick,

I want to walk back to that evening,

When the breeze carries the fragrance of new born jasmines,

And the frisky stars wink from the Milky Way,

And the old house beneath,

Splutter with mirth and joy.

Give me my stick,

I want to walk back to that lane,

And collect the red cotton flowers,

Shed from time’s bare tree.

……. Dr. Fathema Begum