THE MESSENGER¹

Fly bird fly, through the timeless skies
transcending distances,
flipping back the illegible pages of history
fly bird fly.

Beyond the peripheries of the East India Company,
surpassing the magnanimous Mughal palaces,
the ruins of the Slave Dynasty,
the graceful Chola temples
fly bird fly. Pass over
the time of the establishment of the sacred Dhamas
of the revered Shankracharya,
beyond the theorems and the doctrines of
Varahamihira and Aryabhatta.
Fly over the deserted forts of the Munda kings and
through the courts of Vikramaditya, Ashoka and Ajatshatru.
Bird o bird
Touch respectfully the lotus feet of the
Sakya Muni and  the Vardhamana
and seek their blessings for me.

Fly bird fly
Crossing Magadha, Vaishali and Sasanbeda
onto the much beyond Harappa and Mehergarh.
Be a part of the great Santhal migration.
Little bird
fly past carefully protecting yourself
from the rising flames
of the iron smelting Asuras
and then plunge into the great unknown, when
the world was for the Great Mother and She for the world.
Arrive face to face with their
astronomy, mathematics and spiritualism.

When they raise their tall monuments,
Sit atop a nearby tree in Punkri Burwadih
and witness the timeless megalith in its making.

Fly back to me little bird, the enormous distances
fluttering your untiring tiny wings.
Bring me
your acquired wisdom of life.
I await, dear bird
your arrival.

REVELATIONS ON A STORMY DAY²

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 grudgingly.

right now,

i stand soaking underneath this tree.

i find no other place for a shelter

all the fears of the aftermath of the wetness,

the probable falling of the lightning on this 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?

i am forgotten by me.

this moment seems complete.

my life lived  to the full,

i have nowhere to go, nothing to do

save laugh louder

and experience Bliss.

THE HERDMAN’S FLUTE

Have you heard the legend

of the herdsman? He once

played a flute I am told,

which now resonates only in history.

The herdsman.

He drove his herd

 through the open fields,

 to the foot of the hills;

maneuvering his cattle

with his stick and a

language which only they could understand.

And when the hot summer winds blew, they say

he played his flute. The strain

merged with the dusty breeze

floated on  to the mud hut villages,

the traversing rivers, to the lonely traveller

who treaded slowly on the lonely winding path

which ran across the open fields.

While his herd sat and stood with him

 in the dark shade of the large banyan

chewing and fanning their tails,

driving away the disturbing flies,

and the egrets pecking in their ears for a mite or two.

The poetry of the hot and the rustic afternoon

which he, and only he could apprehend

impelled him to compose such masterpieces,

with which he once filled

the lazy afternoon meadows and

had his herd lulled to snooze.

Today. The herdsman lives.

So does his herd

but

the banyan and the hill has gone.

The poetry thus, has vanished;

the flute

 they say, is lost.