Dear readers ,
you know this.
I am behind this
shadow
close to you ,
you can touch me so
close.
This time
I have come to tell
you
about a clear pond
between the valleys
about the blue
mountains guarding it
about the wandering
clouds
and about my
sorrows,
but,
as I was about to
begin the story
my little daughter
began to cry.
while I patted her
thinghs
to make her sleep
the stories flowed
off like dreams.
Friend,
listen
about few scattered
dreams,
about love’s
momentariness
about the cold
silence of the stars
I want to sing this
to you.
But
as I was about to
sing
the milk was
boiling in the stove.
The head of the
family was shouting
due to the changed
routine.
After completing
half the work
as I returned to
sing , the songs
ran away in
different directions.
However,
friend, remember,
with the incomplete
stories
and few scattered
lines
I am here with
tears in my eyes,
close to you , very
close to you.
Lend you ear and
you can hear
so close.
Published in the
Journal Chandrabhagha – issue of 9/2004
Where the Words Reside
On a sunny morning
when the sunlight
fell
in between the
trees
my brother left this
place.
We were playing on
the meadows
where the black
dragonfly
used to fly.
He wanted to tell
me something......
But before the
words came out
from his tender
lips,
all of a sudden, a
tree’s branch
fell on him.
Before knowing that
it was death
he traveled to
death...
Later we put on
white clothes on him
adorned his head
with a crown of flowers
covered him with
rose petals
and cremated him
where the trees
guarded the grave,
leaving him alone
in the cold solitude of the graveyard.
In a bold voice the
priest said
“ Don’t grieve
by this time he
must have turned
into a little angel
and is seated on
God’s lap.
It’s a custom that
the sinless and the
kids
turn into angels
after death.....”
Hearing this, our
old servant
who is an outcast ,
whispered in my ear,
it’s not true......
It’s a
custom that
the kids who die
become little birds
and fireflies
and wander here
itself.......
I did
not think
As to what is right
and what is wrong !
I was thinking of
that word
which he did not
utter......
What is that my
brother
wanted to tell me ?
It’s years since he
departed.
The only thoughts
that remain are
his muddy slippers,
his shirt with the
smell of milk,
the fruit in his
pocket
plucked from a
Christmas tree....
and his sorrowful
thoughts....
Even today,
when the sunlight
falls in between the trees
I think of that
word
which he did not
utter ,
What might have
happened ?
Where did the word
reside ?
What about the
thoughts of the dead
which were not
shared and spoken ?
On which branch
they would reside ?
At last,
where do they seek
shelter ?
Published
in the Journal Chandrabhagha – issue of 9/2004
