Father’s house when translated in Bengali is “Baper bari.” It is of singular importance to a newly married girl who is leaving her childhood home or Baper bari for the first time to make that momentous journey which will take her to her husband’s home. Once she is married she will no longer be her father’s little girl, her mother’s pet. She will now be a married woman expected to carry out her duties in another house.

Things have changed considerably in this age. Now, a couple can move to their own place right after marriage or even stay on in the girl’s house for any number of practical reasons like proximity to work, readily available babysitting or if required even become principle care-givers to ageing parents.

To an Indian girl, however, her father’s house will traditionally hold a very special place in her heart.

I composed the poem My Father’s House during a particularly long commute to work. It started out as purely experimental poetry writing. I wanted to discover which parts of my childhood has made an indelible impression on my mind, enough to make it remember those occasions even now, a few decades later. The journey turned interesting as I travelled in my mind along paths at times delightful and at others nostalgic tinged with longing for what had been never to return.

At the end of the composition I was filled with immense happiness surpassing even that of the sadness I had felt when I left my childhood home, forever.  My brain corroborated what my mind always knew – I had had a wonderful childhood. There must be many among us who, when looking back, can relate to the same kind of happiness.

In June 2015 I was invited to present my poem My Father’s House to an audience, the event organized by the Writers Circle of Durham Region. I drew the piece of art you see as a companion piece and it was projected on a screen behind me as I recited from the podium.

Sometimes I find myself drawing a scene while composing a poem. I have tried this exercise also while writing stories and it has turned out to be a huge help specially while constructing a very challenging scene. I find it helps those creative juices to flow.

Here’s my poem, My Father’s House, my attempt at recapturing a girl’s memory of her “Baper bari.”

 

My Father’s House

Testament to a glorious past

Steadfast and true

Core of our being, love meant to last

Gleaming white walls and tiles pink hued,

That was my father’s house.

Cozy winter nights, cool summer days

We filled its rooms

With laughter, fun filled chatter,

Reveling under the benign gaze

Of my father’s house.

We ran down the steps, two at a time

My sister and I

To chase chickens and catch butterflies

In the garden to the side,

Of the dear old house.

“Do you hear the whispers?” I ask

Deathly silence greets my query.

My loved ones are long gone

And yet, their care and devotion

Live on, in this dear house.

Mother fashioned a swing for me

One forgotten golden afternoon

Swinging gently from the guava tree

I listened rapt, to stories she told.

The deep well where a bucket was lost

Does it still have cold, clear water? I wonder

In the quiet of night can be heard,

Sighs quivering with loneliness;

For there remains none to guard

Or to remember the days of glory

That happened in my father’s house.

Then, the gardens were lush

With nature’s bounty growing in profusion.

Mother’s perfume blew through the rose bush

But they are lush no more…

The guava and mango trees stare,

Stripped of leaves and remain bare.

“Why did this happen?” I ask.

Yet another futile question, with no answer.

As the sun goes down behind the jamun tree

Dusk approaches like a shy bride;

Her face covered in the veil of darkness

Stars appear…the same ones we saw

Mother and I, as we sat on the wooden bench,

In the courtyard.

I ask one last time hoping to get an answer

“Mother, why won’t the house speak, anymore?”

Silence……

My dreams crash and splinter into

Thousand pieces, waking me to harsh reality

My father’s house will keep its secrets as it stands

Lonely, but grand, waiting for us to return.

Keep Well…..Keep Smiling

Purabi Das

Purabi Das is an emerging writer and poet living in Pickering. Some of Purabi’s short stories have been featured on www.commuterlit.com . Purabi was recently featured at Open Mic organized by Writer’s Community of Durham Region where she read an excerpt from her novel. 

Visit Purabi on www.facebook.com/purabisinhadas.