The Ancestral Home

The Ancestral Home

(1)

Through the doorway of the ancestral home,

shadows still walk in silence.

On the old walls,

the gentle tune of forgotten songs still flows.

Along the soft steps of moonlight,

lingers the scent of grandma’s herbal oil,

and the crackle of her betel wrap —

that lamp in the eastern room still waits in silence.

(2)

When mustard seeds, chilies, and curry leaves splutter in hot oil,

her laughter bursts like that familiar spice.

Like rain falling on the kitchen floor,

it softly settles into memory’s silken web.

Beside the blackened hearth,

days flutter past like golden dust.

On the jasmine creeper in the courtyard,

dragonflies still rise with the same morning breeze.

The songs once sung by playful girls

now echo from distant trees.

At the edge of fading light,

old memories quietly fall asleep.

This dwelling called “the ancestral home”

is a land shaped from dreams.

(3)

The trail left behind by bookworms,

through fragile files with no reply,

between silence and long waiting,

like a flickering ember fading into the dark...

With bundles of yellowing documents,

someone peers through thick-rimmed glasses —

a gaze filled with unspoken questions.

Eyes that stir quiet suspicion,

and stares from officials sharp as thorns —

yet her gentle humming voice

glowed in my heart like a secret moonlight of love.

GR kaviyoor 

02 07 2025