Beloved,
I
have come to take you to a land
far
away
where,
clad in virgin greeneries
the
sun looks young,
where,
the mighty river of eternity flows
with
the symphony of life,
where,
there is neither east, nor west
where,
the great civilizations sprang
before
the pyramids came,
and
before the Tower of Babel
divided
man.
There,
on the innocent rustic slopes
when
autumns bloom on the mustard inflorescence
all
yellow with gold–
it
seems
the
single strand of hair
lost
from the lock of the golden-haired princess
has
looped itself all over the slopes.
Long
ago,
when
warriors on the bank of the Mediterranean
plotted
of war in Egypt or Crete
my
people planted life in the soil
and
sang to the serene, silent moon
all
through the night!
Long
ago,
when
people far way
my
people sang
of
the Love of Radha and Krishna
on
river banks.
When
lords and fairies
in
their stories for children
rove
across the sea to kill and win
our
grannies told stories of Savitri
who
challenged death for Satyavan,
her
love.
Come
beloved!
I
will take you to a land
that
is neither east, nor west
that
is above the map of your corrupt cartographers
yes,
the land where spring drinks life
from
every bead of dew,
where
my mother plants songs in everything she touches
where
my father plants dreams,
in
every single step
and
where every tree is human
every
stone a deity;
come,
let’s take a flight
and
transcend
to
the country of love
to
that country of my dream
where
directions dissolve into a smile
where
the ocean raises its breast
for
the moon to touch and kiss
and
silently whispers
the
deeps sighs of love.
Come
beloved,
it is
more than midnight.
We
ought to be moving now!
Light on the Mountain
Weary–
a
traveler, walking uphill
to
claim his legacy
from
his folks up there on the hilltop,
sits
under a lone juniper,
heaves
deep sighs of frustration
and
rages out his fill–
“Didn’t
the blind folk
see
the vast, extensive plains
down
there on the river bank?
Why
did they have to rot
on
the barren, rocky mountaintop
and
continue to cherish
the
harshest weather on earth?”
Tuned
to the sophistications
of
radiances in his luxury den
down
there in the town—
he
can no longer reckon
that
the River
on
whose bank he honks
the
soulless slogans of banal simulacra,
is
rooted on the hilltop.
It’s
as the Vedas say:
Aswatha
– with roots above and the shoot below!
He
cannot reckon—
that
civilization of men
did
never spring on the plain
and
mounted up the hill
like
a covetous mountaineer from the West.
The
river
and
the civilization of men
sprung
with a gush, up there, on the mountaintop
near
the sky.
Down
flowed the river inevitably,
and
with it moved some men
to
invent money and vans.
If
his old grandmother
and
the sick grandfather
anchor
their lives
to a
stone
to a
cave
to
the smell of the cattle droppings
to
cool, refreshing water springs
to
the fresh oranges that yield gold
to
Nag Raj that guards their water spring
to
the ruddy hills and the virgin slopes
where
the honey bees hum the song of life
where
butterflies and nestlings fly to play with the mountaintops—
he
has no point
in
puking blasphemy
at
the octogenarians
that
begot him!
As
long as
man
thrives on earth
and
continues to expand his empire
over
the plain,
some
dim light
out
of an oil lamp
will
continue to glow at midnight
on
the mountains
far
away
silently
yes,
silently!
Yashodhara
Yashodhara!
displaying
silent smiles
with
tempting youth mercilessly smothered among ribs
and
eyes poked by tears frozen like pieces of glass,
is no
less than nirvana.
There
are some who silently wipe the mantelpiece
and
tend to the joint transgression
bequeathed
by the absconding lover,
fetch
grace on bamboo baskets before daybreak from the tap,
bedeck
their future in girdle clothes
and
fill joy in others’ old-age cup
transforming
herself into beads of perspiration.
Only
then can anyone
soar
far away, beyond the horizons
reach
far off in the depth of the woods
dive
deep into oceans
to
seek panacea to life’s sorrows.
One’s
capacity
to
hold the heart
when
besieged by a sobbing gush
or to
hold tears
when
in torrent they jut out
is
nirvana too.
Yashodhara!
The
reality you endured through
is
yet another Tripitak.
Allow
me to erect
a
temple of yours
with
bricks of reverence
on my
heart’s incredible slopes
though
invisible they are!
The
Gardener
The gardener
belongs to the flowers
but
the flowers do not belong to him.
It
has always been so in the world
right
from the remotest fringe of creation.
It
was he who planted perspirations
in
this ruddy garden as old as mountains
and
made colors bloom.
Where
didn’t his time, translated on flowers
reach
with the flow of history?
It
reached the neck of His Majesty,
the
hood of the victor,
temple
of the Lord,
corpse
in the farthest churchyard,
hands
of a lover—
and
he?
For
generations
he
has been keeping a watch over his garden
singing
the ditties of the soil.
The
owner of the garden has returned home today,
after
many, many years from the city.
With him
has come home an old debenture
of
loans, owed through generations.
He
will auction the garden now.
The
floral civilization will be murdered,
songs
will be butchered,
verses
will be eliminated,
and
with that, a tender identity will be annihilated.
The
owner shall be cleared of the inherited debt in a while.
What
will happen of the Gardener
who
raised smiles
from
his heart wedded to flowers?
Kids
and the Golden Sun
In
the west,
the
kids, with their tender fingers
are
trying to hold the golden sun
back from
slipping off the Kanchenjunga!
They
know—
after
the sun sets
and
pitch darkness spills all over
their
sport can come to a stop
on
the banyan-peepal mound!
Father
went out, many a time
beyond
the mighty Kanchenjunga
to
get the slipped-off sun back;
many
a time, Mother lighted the Sapura wicks
to shoo
away the incoming darkness
but
then, Father always returned
with
a heart filled with lamentations
and
Mother always returned
with
a handful of darkness in her palms.
The
kids know—
it’s
quite a task to stand on the ocean water
and
hold back the slipping sun
yet,
they are bound to finish their game today itself
on
the banyan-peepal mound
for,
if the times slips away
it
will return only as a cast-off skin.
The
sun will rise again tomorrow, granted—
and
there shall be light again
but,
tomorrow, on the banyan-peepal mound
they won’t
be inside the game
or
the game won’t be inside them.
The
game that is to be played now
should
be accomplished today.
After
the golden sun sets
and
darkness comes darting
time
shall return on the banyan-peepal mound
in
the guise of a strange hawk
and
carry the kids away
to
the world of realities!
In
the west,
the
kids, with their tender fingers
are
trying to hold the golden sun
back from
slipping off the Kanchenjunga!
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