The House Where Kipling Lived

House Where Kipling Lived

Leaves drop in sibilant silence

The paths that leads to it are unswept.

The trees draped with vine

Breathe the air that he breathed

A century and a half ago; yet,

Seems like yesteryear.

The bungalow stands in decrepitude

Rotten wood painted green

Crumbling with no master inside

To give it a dusting, Gunga Din would do fine.

The staircase down which he descended

Now creaking and brittle with age

The balustrade coated with grime.

At the entrance is a weathered bust

A reminder of the man who portrayed the East

As a sign-seeking misinterpreting man of the West

The trees entered his heart; the vines his soul

There they stand before the old bungalow

Bandar-log[1] peeping from its branches.

If we be The White Man’s Burden[2]

How come he praised Gunga-Din[3]

You’re a better man than I am?[4]

Here, in this dereliction, was born one who loved the East

Told its stories to an appreciative West

Forgetful city, oh, please remember your son

Your history books take scant notice of this one, your bard.

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[1] From The Jungle Book

[2] A poem written by Rudyard Kipling

[3] The protagonist of the poem Gunga Din

[4] From the poem Gunga Din