One day, this place will be beautiful And — happy, We’ll sit in the verandah, Dipping homemade cake into our coffee — I’ll tell you how the garden grows.
In golden yellow and burgundy, the coleus leaves Sway in the breeze; The mussaenda look peachy, now That it is cooler by a few degrees. My grandmother is trying to catch the afternoon sun From a bamboo chair, right where the tangerines fall; You’ll try and get some painting done, Before the evening call.
We’ll redo the kitchen, and watch As our children Use the mango trees for goalposts — a trick they learned from their dad, Oh, how they’ll drive the ants mad, Doing what they love the most.
I’ll tell you how I used to be afraid Of the ficus and palms and hedgerows — That metropolis of cobweb bridges And flower beds, that the bugs call home. You’ll laugh, think me silly, Then, when it gets chilly At sunset, we’ll call everyone in. I’ll build the den that Nana always dreamed of, One that he’d surely greet with a grin.
There’ll be a widescreen television, a billiards table, and bar; Dad will have room on the wall for all his modern art; Mum will check each sofa and fix the placement of tchotchkes; You’ll tell her don’t fuss. There is no need for her to be so meticulous when she’s got us. She can go and rest, Though my sister will bring her whirlwinds of jests. I’ll tend to the drinks, you’ll bring snacks, We’ll sit at the table, Leave a place for Nana to come back.
When it is finally time to turn in, I’ll lean on the balcony outside my room, Searching in earnest for a sign That the magnolias will bloom. But it’ll be too dark so I’ll return to you And turn off the light. Well, aren’t I silly? I have a habit of looking for blossoms at night.
One day, the mountains will reappear At the end of Jan Marg; We’ll awake to the bugles at dawn, To take a walk in the park — I’ll show you where the bougainvillea grow.
Narrow and undulating, the path Cuts through overgrown grass; We’ll stroll by the hollow, where They once held baseball class. I’ll show you the ramp my friends and I scootered down And the stream where we’d count and make fun of the couples; I’ll sneak a kiss when no one is around, My word! How subtle.
We’ll go to the factory, Play with the robot they made for me, The one I designed when I was eight — you’ll thumb the books in the law offices, Read the papers with my promises, Each one of which I managed to break.
We’ll drive past the indoor playground, The third future that was not to be, They would not have had to see such a fate, If it was not for me. You’ll frown, say I’m blind, There is nothing you can find That’s not beautiful about where we are. “Everything has its season, Not everything needs your heart.”
I’ll agree but the doubt will still linger In the collections of dust on the tips of my fingers. We’ll head back to our children, let their grandparents rest, Pull out the board games, Oh, for shame! The four of you always play the best. Luckily, the power will go When it starts to pour outside. We’ll light a few candles, open the front doors, And listen to the breeze’s tales of the night.
Once the light returns, I’ll tuck the children in With a bedtime story or two, Answer every one of their questions, Hoping they will take after you. I’ll kiss their foreheads as they fall asleep, Turn the lamp off, and head down to the den. You’ll find me an hour later with a nightcap, Checking the magnolias again.
One day we will summer here, And welcome the monsoons; In the mountains and the seas, Amidst the mangroves and atop the dunes — I’ll show you the other houses in which I grew up.
The apartment with the rooftop garden, The apartment next to an open sewer, The matchbox I leased in my gap year, With its boarded-up window and future. I’ll take you to my boarding school reunion, We’ll walk up internet hill; I’ll show you the hidden waterfall, And the restaurant where we got our fill.
We’ll tell the kids to be our tour guides, Have them read up on all that we’ll see; We’ll follow in their footsteps, Listening to their take on history. We’ll fly home, you’ll make an album Of the pictures you took; I’ll save the camcorder footage for a home video, Who knows when we’ll next take a look?
One day, middle August will sing, In a chorus in which no voice is coarse; I’ll smile at the spirit, Be just here to visit, To see to the magnolias, of course.
I’ll watch the rushing of rivers; Witness the minarets and domes share the air; I’ll sit with the craftsmen and poets; We’ll talk about life everywhere. That day they will laugh and cry; That day will become one of brilliant decades gone by; I hope a kiss will be out in the open and free, Not concealed in a tryst with destiny.
One day, this place will be beautiful, I cannot wait for when it will be.
One day, this place will be beautiful, And I still won’t be happy.
