To ask of the bamboo chunga
The air through its tunnelly path we blow
Of its volume, mass and speed
We stand, against the odds
With trembling fingers
We hazard a move
Just to feel the ember's heat
We stand, against the odds
And thus wait we do
We look on
At the pictures we made
How are they faring now?
Condition, situation, circumstance
Such discipline, once in place
Gives no way away
Only one thing does:
'Light reflection theory'
Note:
*Chunga* - A traditional bamboo tool for blowing air by mouth with the purpose of effective fire generation in the fireplace.
I craned my neck
Yet
the shower did not abate
Rather
It turned intense with every step
Those olden days are pushed to oblivion
I make intense effort
to keep my eyes shut
no words
if vented
must face many a talkie
What to do
with whom
do I converse
gazing at each other’s eye
As a young boy
Forced by the situation
I stored a seed with my mother
My relatives know that
They query at every chance
What happened to the seed
Is it alive or dead
If it is alive
Is it in the same condition
or
something has changed
etcetera etcetera
Some two years back
The seed
That did not disturb so long
One specific midday
Without knowing-thinking
Started bothering my mind
This botherations rather made me happy
Immediately after
I started delving
The entire household
In search of the seed
Finally I found
The location of the seed
But
With passing time
The seed did not remain seed anymore
It has sprouted
To establish connection with the soil
Today
In the sand-shore of twenty-first century
Some has made an effort
To strengthen the short-span relation
employing fertilizer
Someone else
On the other hand
With a long strategy
Striving to a grow A tree
Dating back to grandpa’s era
Now the question is
This relationship
Is just for the coming two-three years
or
for the oncoming future
It has been long
That the eyed veered from its path
Sometimes
I get startled
At the whining of wind and
the roar of lightning and thunder
Staying silent for a while
I move along putting the glasses on
I spot
A stack – multilayered
A horde of ants moving around
Inside and outside the stack
Of course
The stack is somewhat old
Though old it still carries a characteristic smell
The bottle of essence manufactured by multinational companies
Cannot vie with it
If the stack
Tries to fly out life a leaf embracing the root
Then there shouldn’t be any objection
Because there is objection
A passersby trample on it
If it is repeated
Would the stack remain so
Would the smell remain so
And
What would befall on the ants
Worrying about all these
I spent the entire night
Pondering over
Even today the sky
Gets startled
Pondering
The paddy-field of father
Replete with grains
Rows of vendors
Load of school
In an attempt make a seat
Out of an areca nut stem
Urn of straight lines
Stacked up in the verandah
Under whiplash of bamboo bars.
Overflowing
Everywhere it is overflowing
Whatever happens afterwards
Afterwards
Wind that was eavesdropping
Moves away to unknown
Showing its back automatically
Thinking
How far is that hand of language
Path of sunshine
Voice of a horde of chequered dreams
Feeling of kindredness
Shh! What are we thinking of
Leave it
Come lets enjoy a nap
