Gone with the Peacocks (by Pretam Kaur)

When father spoke of golden grains and peacocks
And the sweet smell of orange mangoes, he
raised that flush of excitement that showed
I understood his tongue. Days of coloured festivals,
the life, the essence and the great land of
forefathers - and his eyes gleamed and veins stood out.
He wanted me to see that glorious land,
to speak, see and feel with him -
Then I was there - and I saw no peacocks.
And my peacock love died in me.
Sweet mango fragrance of remembrance was
lost in the dust storm which tickled my
nose, the sense of belonging was grounded as
I tasted the ashy dust of disappointed eyes.
Peacocks live, and that peacock desire
found no joy in the chapati existence
of mud walls.
Father, I had no goose-pimples of patriotism
as I stood on that plot of soil that was yours. I picked up a handful
of your mother-earth and the dust ran
through my fingers, and all I had
were brown stains which I clapped
off in despair.
My phrase of "this trip is like a home coming"
mocked me as I stood stripped of all the colouring
of my peacock hues.
The pilgrim in me had not met the expected grace.
And the peacock was plucked clean of its plume
with the bitter knowledge that it had
just lived and died in me.
I had lost my peacock love -
And father you have lost the
eager ear that painted peacocks with you.