THE UNBORN

Credit: dare-to-think-beyond-horizon.blogspot.com

The Norwester in April uproot trees and

devastate shacks of the impoverished.

That unrelenting tempest is me.

The hot summer winds blow in the stifling June afternoons 

coercing you to bar your windows and doors.

That unwelcome heat is me.

The perpetual showers of wet August

make your day a drag.

That unpleasant downpour is me.

The razor cold icy winds blow in

January piercing through your aged bones.

That fierce jitters is me.

I am the dark threatening clouds in July.

I am the sultriness in mid-May.

I am the bite of the chill in December.

I am the wind, the clouds.

I am the sun, the crimson of the sky,
I am the dark in the night time and the gold in the sun,

I am the drop of water on the burning desert sands.

I am the nomadic Bhulaiya Birhor dwelling in the leaf Kumbas.

I am the migratory bird of Siberia.

I am Chowrasia’s tune of the pahadi.

I am the riff of Clapton strings.

I am Teejan Bai’s Mahabharata.

I am the yearning for a son,

I am the coyness of a bride.

I am the deep contentment of the cold water’s thirst in sultry summer,
I am the sound of the sweep of the dry leaves.

I am patriotism and the traitorous.

I am the famine, the green paddy fields.

The Eureka of Archimedes is me,

The pain of dignity in Khudiram’s mother is me,

The experiments of Gandhi with truth are me,

The tsunami of Chennai is me.

I am Vishnu, Zarathustra,Zen and Christ. I am the Buddha,

I am Hitler, I am the Mahatma.

 Rabindranath, Lalan, Kabir, Dylan and Tennyson too are me.

I am Jack the Ripper, Martin Luther and Che Guevra.

I am life, existence.

I am death, death’s life.

I am the origin, the end.

I am creation, destruction.

I am the bliss in your meditation.

I am the Nirakar Brahma and the Sakar Shiva.

Why need you look at me in separates?

I am indivisible, wholesome and complete.

I am the unborn, the uncreated.

I am the entire arrangement of existence.

I reside within and without you.

But then, I am yet unknown to you as you still hold to your name.

I happen only to the anonymous and to the awakened.

Punkri Burwadih Megaliths...sketched.

THE SHEPHERD BOYS

The shepherds hang out on the tree while a portion of their herd graze below.

The shepherd boys or the “rakhal chelera” exalted in Bangla literature by numerous erstwhile poets and writers and even by the venerated Tagore himself are a dying breed today. 

Growing up on these playful carefree young lads in classic Bangla literature has carved a deep niche somewhere within me.With schooling around they no more tend their flock and in the process a major aspect of Bangla literature is on its way of fading away with time. As a result of which I haven’t quite confronted with them these days while meandering in the countryside.

One leisurely morning....

But when I do, I am transported to my self-created fanciful world where I have treasured many prized memories since childhood and among them is the cherished memory of the uninhibited pleasure I once obtained reading of these “rakhal cheles”.


During one such amble in the country I chanced on a shepherd-boy. His mere sight evoked many emotions in me.I looked at him,his herd...suddenly he smiled at me that is when I clicked (snap above).
But when I reviewed the photograph, his face had no smile. I turned around in hope of another snap, the lad had moved away with his herd...

REVELATIONS ON A STORMY DAY

the storm blows

 with the rage of an untamed mighty bull.

i hide beneath an old mango tree

which shakes reluctantly

as all her branches shriek.

right now,

i stand soaking under this tree...

i have no other place to shelter.

all fears of the aftermath of the wetness,

the fall of lightning on the tree

or

a branch suddenly breaking down on me

has ended; abruptly...

...and then, i lose myself.

here i stand, drenched

without a name and a haunting past.

i have no future, 

who am i, then?

i am forgotten by me.

this moment seems compete.

my life lived fully,

i have no where to go, nothing to do

save laugh louder, even louder

and experience Bliss.

(This poem is an experience on a stormy rainy afternoon during a trek from Khunti to Ranchi on 27.5.2004)

The Magic of Punkri Burwadih

This was my umpteenth visit to the megaliths of Punkri Burwadih. The 23 km journey from Hazaribagh through dense Sal forests on the either sides, winding roads through ghatis like the Lohsigna and Likhlahi to the megaliths heals you.

Dense Saal trees dot the either side of the highway to the Punkri Burwadih

Arriving at the plains you spot the standing stones from a distance, beckoning at you. You cannot resist rushing towards them.

...amidst the ancient stones

Wonder how many times I have been here alone among the stones. I sit silently and the overpowering energy of the ancient stones gets you. You wonder how things may have had been thousands of years ago when they created this ancient megalithic site? Who were they with such understanding of the sky, the horizon, mathematics, astronomy and geodetics?

These palm trees are to the South of the megaliths and the Mahudi Hills are at the background.

You search for an answer as you gaze all around; the encircling hills, the tall palms, and the soft whispering breeze…if this is not then heaven then what is…you question yourself ?