Jamshedpur, Jharkhand, India

Metavision

Decades after

(say twenty-six years) 

I re-visited the danga (upland) 

and sitting on a concrete bench

looked into the sky above

in a serene evening. 

It was a blue sky with

torn and ragged clouds afloat, 

a lone and mute crane

flying on its own accord

from everywhere to everywhere. 

Gupta babu's orchard, 

round table of stones, 

pits filled with frothy water, 

heaps of yellow flowers on trees, 

balmy touch of rains in the

nooks and corners of my mind. 

A pleasant breeze was

blowing from afar

past Charchaka^*, the orchard, 

and touching the sky and

the earth in musical rhythm. 

A tune most familiar

resonated in and thrilled my heart. 

Once profusely eloquent

it has now receded in silence. 

The sky turned gradually grey -

no hope, no assurance,

no gleams of glow-worms even,

stars slept, night deepened. 

Light has gone out from everywhere

plunging everything

in deep darkness. 

No tryst of moon with her

lover tonight, 

the whole universe is engulfed

in an all-pervasive void. 

The concrete bench

has come of age. 

Its plaster has eroded stealthily

in conformity with landslides

in my youth and life at large. 

Silently getting off I started walking

and at the long last sat on

a concrete round base

at the foot of a 'shiuli' tree, 

a very old friend of mine. 

I knew not exactly who or when

but felt some presence, for sure, 

peeping into the recess of my mind

with caution and secrecy. 

No shower of 'shiuli' flowers tonight

on my lips, no kisses, no hums, 

no staring at for nothing. 

No books in your almirah, 

no images, no creations, 

no poet, hence no poetry either, 

and sans you nothing exists. 

From the rooftop I cast

a last glance at the upland

and in the pitch-dark night, 

a serious phenomenon

on bewildered earth, 

I saw visions infinite

and, far beyond, the colossal Eternity

absorbed in rapt meditation.

*Charchaka : the name of a village.