There’s a certain pull that comes with the idea of “home.” It’s not just a place—it’s a collection of moments, memories, and emotions, woven together like a patchwork quilt. For me, that place is my hometown in India, where narrow streets hum with life, the aroma of freshly cooked spices lingers in the air, and laughter bounces off the walls of small, vibrant homes.
I left all of it behind, chasing opportunities in a distant, developed land. The choice felt right then, practical even. But as the years passed, I realized that while I gained material comforts, I left a part of my soul behind. My hometown—the soil, the people, the essence—called to me, but I was too distracted to listen.
Writing The Forgotten Garden brought back waves of nostalgia and reflection. It reminded me of a garden that once thrived in my childhood—a garden I abandoned along with my roots. Revisiting that garden in my mind stirred something profound: a longing to reconnect, to revive not just the garden but the parts of myself it represents.
This continuation is about that call, the journey back to one’s origins, and the healing that awaits when we answer.
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The winds of time carried me far,
Across oceans wide, beneath foreign stars.
I built my dreams on distant lands,
With golden towers and weary hands.
But somewhere deep, a whisper grew,
A voice I knew, yet scarcely knew.
It called me back, both soft and strong,
A melody I’d lost too long.
The streets I walked in childhood days,
Now shadowed paths in memory’s haze.
The laughter, the cries, the scents that stayed,
Their echoes formed a fleeting parade.
The garden waits, a patient friend,
Its story unfinished, far from its end.
The flowers wilted, the fruitless trees,
Yet hope lingers in the breeze.
I pack my bags, not just with clothes,
But with fragments of dreams, with humble oaths.
To tend the soil that shaped my name,
And light once more that tender flame.
Each step I take feels bittersweet,
As past and present gently meet.
The forgotten blooms will rise anew,
In colors bright, in morning’s dew.
For home is not just bricks and stone,
But the seed of love we’ve always known.
It waits, it whispers, it longs to see,
The part of itself that lives in me.
