A Country at the Door
Someone has left the door open. The rain has come in and made a small map on the floor. I follow it. It smells of tea in Assam, of wet earth in Andhra Pradesh, of pine in Arunachal Pradesh. In Bihar, a child asks a question and an old classroom grows young again. Chhattisgarh keeps a forest in its palm. Goa brings salt in on the breeze. Gujarat sends kites into January; Haryana waits for its daughters to come home. Himachal Pradesh folds winter into a shawl. Jharkhand hears the rain on its trees. Karnataka speaks in many voices, and Kerala lays out an Onam meal with room for another plate. A river crosses Madhya Pradesh. A worker crosses Maharashtra before sunrise. Manipur ties its bells for a dance. Clouds sit on Meghalaya’s windowsill as if they have nowhere else to be. Mizoram sings across the hills. Nagaland gathers its stories at Hornbill. Odisha shapes a memory with patient hands. Punjab brings the harvest home and opens its doors at Vaisakhi. Rajasthan has saved a song for the d...
