A post card to my father

I am your travelling-son, father,
Since you left me
In the crowded railway station of Guwahati
i started my journey by Brahmaputra Mail
with a physicist who loves Graham Greene
who taught me life is short to do everything
and i learnt the hardest part is to be a traveller like me
and the easiest thing is to write poetry
using names like Neruda, Guevara and Mayakovsky

Father, in my journey
I have missed home
but i believed there is so much in love
and the city i travelled
Now i wish to recycle this city in my desktop
as it threw me out on 15th December, 2009
leaving me stranded in a crossroad
with 1000kilograms of luggage
that i gathered in my ten years of travelling.
where shall i go now with all these
with no friends and notepads
where i can fit them as poetry
like stars studded in a pixel of sky
Must i end here?
Shall i burn myself out at home?
Don't tell me father "Go tell it on the mountain"?

I imagine you selling transistors to old men
It is Christmas time, you must be selling stereo tape too
to the brothers from hills who wear leather pants and hats
like some Texas cowboy in old Hollywood movies
But the smile was gone from your face
the grey beard replaced it
as you die fighting with them for every demand letter
they brought to your table.
I curse myself for loving home sometime
as i know they too prove that they love the land
with names like Kangleipak, Republic front and borrowing
all the good phrase of great history of revolutions.

I apologise father
I am your travelling son
who seeks nothing in life
other than living a day with a rucksak 
filled few lousy algebraic calculations
and few poems
dying to be on some white page of a capitalist

I am sending you this post card
as Christmas arrives everywhere with snow,
 i know you don't care of Christmas
but you will smell it in the rice and potatoes you eat
as it passed through highway 39
or you listen to the bell "Nagaland for christ"
Give my kisses to mother.

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