This land of Windchill and Snowstorms is not Mine

Once, in the swift embrace of a tempest’s breath,

The window frames would rattle with a furious roar,

I would throw away all restraint and run outside under the open sky,

The green fields or the asphalt roads,

Everything was mine, ours, and everyone’s!

I’d listen to the storm’s anthem of revolution—

The leaves of the aroused trees waltzing to the beat

Would sing the known hymn of my favorite choir:

“My language of protest, my resistance’s fire!”

Ah, in that inspiration, my mind dances like Nataraja!

And now! Under the wrap of a woolen layer on a piece of cotton cloth,

Keeping ears covered, and nose tucked inside the warmth of a muffler,

My half-open eyes silently witness

The inevitable fury of the relentless Midwestern winter!

In an instant, my youthful heart succumbs to unconsciousness!

Although they say, age is just a number, my bones grow old,

Cough echoes and resonates in the chest,

At this nostalgic moment, my body doesn’t search for warmth,

But seeks only the most effective way to survive

Proving Darwin’s theory in every single second!

The air doesn’t carry the tantalizing scent of the Bhapa pitha,

Solely the scent of dark exhaust from fleeting vehicles,

No one comes to offer a hot cup of tea,

Some run quickly into their own homes.

What terrible solitude, what depressing individualism, what fierce silence all around!

This diasporic nature is not mine,

I do not recognize this unearthly sky,

This wind grates against the body like a chilling cry,

The loud cries of these trees are terribly unpleasant to my ears,

This ruthless storm steals me away from my core self—

Oh, this land of windchill and snowstorms is not mine at all!