Migrations are always difficult: <br />ask any drought, <br />any plague; <br />ask the year 1947. <br />Ask the chronicles themselves: <br />if there had been no migrations <br />would there have been enough <br />history to munch on? <br /> <br />Going back in time is also tough. <br />Ask anyone back-trekking to Sargodha <br />or Jhelum or Mianwali and they'll tell you. <br />New faces among old brick; <br />politeness, sentiment, <br />dripping from the lips of strangers. <br />This is still your house, Sir. <br /> <br />And if you meditate on time <br />that is no longer time - <br />(the past is frozen, it is stone, <br />that which doesn't move <br />and pulsate is not time) - <br />if you meditate on that scrap of time, <br />the mood turns pensive <br />like the monsoons <br />gathering in the skies <br />but not breaking. <br /> <br />Mother used to ask, don't you remember my mother? <br />You'd be in the kitchen all the time <br />and run with the fries she ladled out, <br />still sizzling on the plate. <br />Don't you remember her at all? <br />Mother's fallen face <br />would fall further <br />at my impassivity. <br />Now my dreams ask me <br />If I remember my mother <br />And I am not sure how I'll handle that. <br />Migrating across years is also difficult. <br /> <br />[From: The Map-maker]<br /><br />Keki Daruwalla<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/migrations-3/
