Napowrimo Day 2 - Nanthencode Then (a poem on a specific place/time/space or locality)

"....take a page or leaf from James Schuyler's chapbook (Pulitzer Prize winner) and write a poem about a specific place —  a particular house or store or school or office. Try to incorporate concrete details, like street names, distances (“three and a half blocks from the post office”), the types of trees or flowers, the color of the shirts on the people you remember there. Little details like this can really help the reader imagine not only the place, but its mood – and can take your poem to weird and wild places."


Poem 2.1.

Nanthencode Then

Although we no longer stay at Nanthencode
O junction 'tis of thee
I sing
My childhood memory
From and of its rich paucity
Your small side-road of a mud path from my first rented house
- Not being rich, it was a small house
That was my paradise
But it was the junction that was my palace -
That led to the butcher's shop
No longer there
Where hung slabs of pink-reddish chunks of meat
On hooks
Where first I saw blood, innards, and bone
And skulls of cows
Thankachen's shop in the center of the junction from which we always bought provisions
Sugar, salt, parippu, payaru, sweets, rice, and wheat....
Whose youngest brother was Unni who was my age
O junction, you had your drunkard MR (Radha, short for Radhakrishnan)
And your own version of the village idiot or madman in Oollen Paakkaren
You had your vegetable shop which also had cycles for rent and two small ones for children, one red and one green, as if just for me and my sister
Next to it was the ration kada with its green planks to shut it with and the sacks of rice,  kerosene in cans, wheat and kadala in rough brown sacks
And murukkaan kada
Your tea shop  just next to the small bus stop that was only two pillars and a tin-roof
With its brass samovar to make tea
And your miller and his shop, whose son was the locatough
Venu who was always good to me
You had your dhobi whose son Vinod was a madcap
But friendly with me
The dhobi who ironed with red coals in his isthiripetti
You had your Mao building! Imagine that, these days!
You had your center as a  circle with its flags
You had a locksmith's shop and forge
And a toddy shop
You had your Western bakery
With Binu and Biju who came to my mom for tuition for all subjects
With cream-filled cornets, plum cakes, and bread so soft it would melt in our mouths
Who studied, worked and were my friends too
Next to the bakery was Shivan's barber-shop and nearby an old rickety wooden staircase we loved to climb led to the kind tailor's shop we loved to go to
Fascinated by the many sewing machines in there, the zips, the differently-colored buttons, and his measuring tape
O junction with your one mangy brown stray of a street dog and many stray cats
O junction, you are my Malgudi
My Wessex, you are my Tbilisi!
My junction, yet never mine only!
Junction of my mornings, sunshine-noons, evenings, twilights and my nights
I immortalize you in this poem and in my story
Titled aptly "The Junction"
Not as you are now
But as you were then!
In my mind, you have not aged!
Babu's vegetable shop that came later is not a part of you
By this crazy logic
But the Mar Thoma church of the faction that split away (Evangelical) is!
Junction, I have you in me
And every detail is of importance to me
Vimal's cows let out in the daytime
And each post and their yellow, dim, lights at night
A symphony of sounds, smells, and colors
Shapes, touch, sights, and tastes
Fantasies and dreams!
O small junction, 'tis of thee
(Not the one in Google maps
Or the one as it stands today)
I sing my ode, forsooth!
I sing my elegy!

Nanthencode Now (unrecognizable and leaving me strangely unmoved!)