This is a letter to the ‘creepy’ St Edmund’s statue
that has witnessed kids draw the universe with chalk
who were once babies still learning to walk.  

This is a letter to the phenomenal apple orchards
that have seen people coming from different ends of the world
fall in love under the full moon skies and confessions of the birds.

This is a letter to the warm wooden benches
that have silently comforted grieving hearts and clenched bones
looking for some sun in the longing for their locked-down homes.

Bhumika Billa

This is a letter to the football field
where seeds of new dreams and stronger hopes are sown
every time a new daffodil is planted or another kite is flown.

This is a letter to the dining hall
whose walls still echo with Saturday brunch laughter
and curtains still trying to decode accents from a February formal’s chatter.

This is a letter to the Okinaga windows
that have gracefully protected the midnight namaz
whispered 2 meters away from Buddhist prayers still looming on their glass.

This is a letter to the pride flag
that doesn’t just go up to mark a special month
but stands on the wall, a bit pompous, as it has never been put down even once.

This is a letter to the fairy lights in the combination room
twinkling with friendships built over Asians tasting Latin snacks
and Europeans dancing to Bollywood tracks.

Bhumika Billa

This is a letter to the bookshelves of the Annex
that crave for discussions where a social scientist explains ontology
for a mathematician who sits with a book on topology.

This is a letter- to the tea-trolley
that calls me these days to catch up on gossip it doesn’t get to hear much,
to the piano keys that are craving to be touched.


Mountain View

My memories are made of this city

This is a letter- to the library stairs
that just stare at books that were never farther than a mile,
to the thirsty bottles in the bar who haven’t seen someone for a while.

This is a letter- to the Norfolk stoves
that miss eavesdropping every time a Polish and an Indian exchanged their recipes,
to the quiet pigeon holes that used to talk to each other in a hundred different languages.

I am writing today to just let you know, we will all be back don’t you worry
that there has always been hope whenever it gets tough
and that we miss you just as much as you miss us.

Bhumika Billa