मन र म

Her head draped in white — she is our Mother India. Her parting adorned with a golden band, her chest bearing the twin rivers — Ganga and Yamuna — to nourish her children. Her green-robed bosom cradling the ocean in its fold. Her face radiant, perpetually smiling, she looks northward — her arms spread east and west, her feet planted firm upon the level earth — our Mother. Bearing the white rose of peace, she sets the peacock, pheasant, and songbird to dance; humming sweet melodies in the cuckoo's voice, she sways like the great elephant, unhurried, and holds the whole world in her embrace — marching on her tireless journey: our Mother India.

Before dawn the horizon smiles — the farmer's body springs taut; his eyes blink open to the brightening world, he leaps to his feet without complaint. No weariness in him — with his ox he sows the earth, the village turns green, nature rejoices. The sun burns fierce each day, rivers of sweat — yet his labour's wage is never quite enough. His clothes are worn through, can't cover his frame; his body grows old — but not a sound of weeping. Without the fields his heart can find no peace. Time passes, time circles on again — grandfather and father gone, one by one. Now his own beard whitens, teeth have fallen; he has grown wizened and worn, poor old man! A small lamp flickers in the dusk; a little hut — that is his whole world. Untouched in their sorrow, yet calm — as if peace itself dwelt there — the family gathers, laughs and is content; roasted corn they chew with delight.

The bee was drunk on nectar, utterly content; he turned on a whim and entered the palace. Swiftly, meticulously, it collected sweet resin and in moments had adorned a magnificent shrine. How fierce its labour — heedless of storm and wind, though icy gusts swept endlessly across its body. Tiny and slight, yet brimming with energy, it gathered honey from every beautiful flower. It flinched at neither blazing sun nor pouring rain, wore no clothes to shield its form. Spreading its wings it counted every hour, ferrying nectar in vast stores to the hive. Then Time arose and set a flame — and all its toil was turned to ash and ruin. The combs were torn apart, the hive destroyed. The cunning gardener licked his lips and stroked his moustache, well pleased. That sly taker savoured his joy.

How far away is waiting — as far as the horizon stretches, that far. Sitting and waiting grows suffocating. She who rose before dawn and kept the house running looks strangely full of energy today, poor thing — she couldn't even go to see the fair two days ago, and many came calling to join the Bhaileni dance, but somehow she hadn't the heart… She plastered the house with cowdung and red clay, scrubbed the water-pot and set out flowers, garlands too: one of velvet-soft flowers, another of sacred dub-grass — she made a garland-crown and, not waiting for tomorrow, filled the tulsi-pot today, praying for auspicious tidings. Round breads, arsa-arnasa and every kind of delicacy — so many gifts laid out for Bhai Tika… A letter had come five months ago: her soldier-brother would come for Bhai Tika this time… The bad omens had not relented — all night the dog had howled without stopping. Her left eye kept twitching — that same uneasy feeling. In the courtyard her sari caught on something, the water-pot tipped, a bangle broke, shards of glass scattered. The temple clock was chiming. Pampha kept watching the time. Then suddenly this news arrived — her brother had died in a bomb blast — alas… Waiting remained only waiting.

Dawn smiled gently then — when the birds began to chirp, spreading their wings on the boughs, scattering golden rose-light everywhere. The slopes and waterfalls grew fragrant; dewdrops fell, sparkling bright, and bees leaned forward, bowing low, sipping at honey — bless them. Temple conches rang out, the shrine was adorned; incense and fragrant resins filled the air, the bell chimed: so be it, so be it — the day began, drinking deep of joy. The farmer took his plough to field and farm, laboured long, raised grain from the earth; all the world sat and ate its sweet morsel — dawn smiled, making all the earth beautiful.

Flash and rumble, boom and crash — the rain falls without pause, relentless. Since the great evening descended thunder has stormed through all night. The sky has been angry these days. In fear, imagining despair, catching the leak in the middle of the room, Maili breathes a sigh of longing on her drawn face, gathering her salty, helpless tears, holding on her lap the little one who has just learnt to turn over — bitter thought that she is a daughter-in-law here, looking closely at her daughter's face. Tomorrow is the auspicious day of Dashain tika, a powerful desire to eat something sweet and wear something fine, a longing to dress up like others and walk side by side, husband and wife — within walls of grief too vast to contain, in the hoped-for arrival of the man working abroad, she turns aside in her half-drowse… Oh hope, hope — when words fill the ears and drowsiness breaks, a door full of resolution opens to waiting. But it was only a meeting — only a union — in the morning it was all plundered: the dream she had kept safe, the foreign earnings.

Dashain has arrived, with a sudden thud, bearing debt, sweat, and sorrow — wading through mud, rain, and drought, stumbling over difficult slopes and ridges, making provisions on every front: somewhere Dashain rejoices, somewhere innocent Dashain flows as blood, somewhere Dashain brings reunion in an embrace, somewhere Dashain weeps softly. This beloved Dashain — this Dashain that ties our bonds, this Dashain of brotherhood — if only we could live within our means it would not ruin us, this Dashain. Let Dashain pass as the throat allows — swallowing no more than one can bear — then debt will not make a renunciant of us. Dashain when one must visit parents' and in-laws' homes, Dashain when new clothes for the young and old are a must, heavy Dashain when gifts must properly be carried in loads, Dashain when one feels ashamed if the offering falls short, Dashain when whitewash must be put on the walls, Dashain when even if one can't digest it, a little must be eaten, somewhere Dashain is all chaff and waste, somewhere Dashain reeks like rot. A Dashain when one squints with a sharp look — brushed aside with a wave of a hand. But somewhere Dashain is resplendent with Malashri hymns, processions, and the Chandi recitation — Vijaya Dashami: the victory of truth over falsehood.

Since the month of Jestha, I have been trying to sprout — for your sake. I fell from a branch onto the scorching earth, endured the unbearable drought — at last a single drop of rain has fallen and I am being born: to protect the environment. To give long life to the short-lived — as roots and shoots of saplings, as leaves, fruit, and flower — crushed, pressed, pounded, and ground down: to give warmth to those frozen stiff, to offer cool, clean, fresh air to breathe — let me grow. To make your home, to lay your threshold beam, to bring rest to your chair and table, to become the pages of your books and notebooks, let me live on in this divine world to keep your immortal name and your work; to become medicine against epidemic disease — then let me serve: to turn your mortal body to ash.

I gave myself up, gathering courage, holding selfless feeling to the full of my breast. I was crushed, ground down, swallowing the knot of tears. I was cast aside, scorned — letting the tide of blood flow. Even mirages I scattered and left behind. Gasping within the wall of war upon war — nothing remained besides a medal. Withered, I came hunched and stooped, drawing a long, hollow sigh. My years became silent as the touch-me-not plant. My desires swelled like a monsoon flood. My blankets pricked me and I could not sleep. But the desire to reach out a hand, to walk hand in hand — even embraces fled away from me. Ages have passed far beyond, yet writing my history of sacrifice was forgotten. A hundred times more hidden than the Pandavas' exile — from the age of the khukuri to the age of the atom — I kept a vow of silence in exile. Like Abhimanyu breaking the Kaurava's wheel-formation, I resolved once more to sacrifice. To add a chapter to my tale of bravery, becoming Arjuna himself, I sought Krishna as my charioteer. Washing the sword in the Tista — the house of lacquer must be burned to write history with a pen — for the story of one's own soil must be written.

Morning — go, you — embrace the first light of dawn, open your wings with the birds, set the beat, rhythm, and melody of the cool breeze alongside the waterfall. Noon — how it scorches — carrying one painful weight of weariness, resting a moment in the shade of a mango tree, noon chews a stalk of sugarcane. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow — in the twilight that comes after — Saili and Maili singing their herding songs, holding the cow's tail homeward — I am quite late today. Go, you — I am coming, bringing the great dusk, to breathe the breath of peace, having eaten the sweet morsel of honest labour, in the warm lap of the goddess of sleep — forgetting all pain, grief, and sorrow — I will close my eyes for four watches of the night; my dear night always keeps me company.

Carrying the east on its back, our morning always comes running — scattering a fistful of light, to bring together pollen and flower. The bee's companions are equally busy; no matter how much the midday teases, that tireless one — yet they push on, dripping sweat, reaching the west at last, because tomorrow must be brought again. Why is it — every destination of mine gets confused, becomes an obstacle. Startled principles come to rest before reaching there. I should certainly have arrived, and yet — I am blocked — what blocks me, I cannot say. I cannot see those walls, and they stand guard before me. And so the days stretch longer, then return — diminished.

Becoming the traveller of one dark night, bearing a burning, passionate torch, to weave and adorn new imaginings into dreams — that wayfarer walks on… for there his children must be settled, so he walks on foot, without pause, to turn the dreams of the past into reality. With hoe and spade in hand, after ploughing and returning home, to bring tomorrow's morning — he goes to rouse those who have made a pillow of their fist and fallen fast asleep. To make those who have locked their lands and their troubled existence flourish again — he sings songs of struggle and love, calling out on the steep slopes. The unfinished longing of a sigh-filled life, aspirations, and the unfulfilled wishes of martyrs — to awaken them once more, that traveller journeys every single day.

I go on, steadily, carrying some passionate, distant goal — to become light for every darkness, like the beam of a lamp — glowing. To wake, and to waken others. The streams lie still until then — until the monsoon comes. My lines of fate remain silent, every line of my palm is innocent — for I am a student. On the dark walls of the blackboard, they are written and erased — bright white letters of chalk. Gathering all of these into my mind — yes, truly — to write the new history of a new world tomorrow, I go to school — I, who am a student.

In the narrow judgment of my own competitors, carrying broad ideas — I compete as a competitor. What a fool I am! On that stage, the lens claiming to see without bias was seeing with bias; the marks of my achievement were docked. Without consolation or thanks he scowled — yet I considered him great. What a fool I am! From the crowd outside, peering in — "Excellent, excellent," they said. Sneezing there from a cold, some were picking their noses — and still one decent person was speaking, having placed himself on the throne of ideals, loading sarcasm into his words, and applause would burst out in between. I stood there dumbstruck. What a fool I am! He was swallowing truth, chewing up time, counting off all the philosophers — France, Japan, Germany, Italy, England, America, India, Nepal — extolling them all. I had dozed off; when I woke the hall was half empty. I had been listening from a corner. What a fool I am! Awards were hurrying past: from the hand of so-and-so, et cetera… It turned out the share went by the moustache. I set off homeward — quite a commotion it had all been. People were clucking their tongues. What a fool I am!

When feeling overflows onto white pages — poetry is poured out, and the poet swims in creation. The pen takes no rest until then, poetry does not end until then. When the tide, the wave, the swell ripples — when the poet is engrossed — to feed, to nourish, sweet sweet expressions pure as nectar, the creations of a new world — drinking the juice of verse and craft, the poets appear drunk, intoxicated. And yet poetry is forever tender. Somewhere even on crutches they crawl on — words marching toward martyrdom in the mind. Yes — that is poetry.

O India — register this land in our name too, so that we may live here. Without condition we have already died for you; we will not lag behind in dying again. We are always honest too — for this reason, register this land in our name. A mother's lap is the warmest, they say — let us too suckle at the breast of the Ganges. For the mother herself we shall meet a warrior's end — at least let us dwell here. We are your own children — at least let us burn on the pyre freely. We will give you dignity, we will give you honour. As martyrs on this very soil — at least let us sleep the cold sleep. Let the living live, let the dead be buried — register this land in our name.

She was burning, blistering — blisters breaking out raw. She screamed without restraint, she wept with an uncontrolled cry. And those who had gathered said: why? what happened — why cry like this? She said: please, help! help! Pour water over me — I am burning. It is hard to survive. What is this! What has happened to her? She must be mad, they said — she is speaking in a daze. She should be seen by a specialist! But what really happened? Tell us clearly — perhaps a solution can be found. And tell us who you are. Who are you? In reply she spoke… This world is heating up — and I am Nature. Day by day my form is being destroyed.

I thought I was alive — but I have already died. Someone murdered me while I still lived. In an undug grave, on an unadorned pyre — I did not become a martyr for my country, nor did I die the death that defeats life. But I have died. This is not even a dream — I have died within wakefulness itself. All my rights stripped from me — I have died. And so I have died. From an unacknowledged bond, I was killed like an unwanted newborn; slaughtered like a nameless animal. Going in search of myself — that is when I died. Therefore I have died. Among those who stand upright, I — I have departed. Like a frog that cannot leap, I have died in the well. Going in search of a friend, gasping for breath, I have died. Going in search of my mother, searching and searching — I became a mirage and died in the desert.

I will never die this kind of death again — tear apart the bones and skin of my worn-out body, throw them away — take my heart and keep it somewhere else, sever my head and bury it — but I will never die this kind of death. Dig open an ancestor's grave and look: the marrow has not rotted there. Ask the pyre of the soldier who died hungry — his khukuri has not rusted. Look at the widows of the martyrs — their faces still wear a smile. Open up the thoughts of the fatherless son and look — the resolve to fight for the soil is kept there. The warning you gave me is my knowledge. Your saying you will not give is your pride. However it may be, I shall take it — that is my glory.

How did I become this? I did not even know — no offence, no crime, no murder, no wrongdoing, no quarrel at home, no bad blood with a neighbour. Under this blue sky how did I become this? I became a free prisoner. I walk — there are no shackles on my legs. Both arms are free — there are no handcuffs there. Going to the toilet, the police do not follow me. But my voice — no one hears. How did I become this? I became a free prisoner. It is not that I did not sacrifice. It is not that I did not guard the border. How many nights did I spend hungry? The medals on my chest were shaming me. My children were clinging to my neck. How did I become this? I became a free prisoner. I made the tricolour my very soul. I filled the national anthem with my breath. My vote became like a daydream — valueless. In what way did I wrong you? And so I became a free prisoner this way. Was I truly free at all?

Sun or shade, rain or wind — in Darjeeling this fog persists. Darjeeling, Ghoom, Jorbungalow — old Gorkha glory everywhere: Sukna, Mirik, Manebhanjyang, Tonglu, Phalut, and as far as Rimbick, from the beautiful villages and slopes of Kalimpong to all the surrounding foothills — from Kurseong through Siliguri throughout the entire district of Darjeeling — this fog persists. This fog gave no comfort at all — sometimes vehicles crashing into each other, sometimes breath stopping in the snowfall, crops unable to ripen. What has happened here? Now it is even getting to people — a kind of intoxication has taken hold.

What a splendid day — as soon as the rain stopped, our land became a pearl. The sky cooed with joy, the highlands and lowlands filled with reunion — our land became a pearl. The birds had no spirit, the sun offered no warm welcome. Utterly drenched, the bees hung low; the month of Poush tried to bring gloom — breathing in two fistfuls of cold, smoke was rising upward. Our land became a pearl. From courtyard to Himalaya, from the ground to the sky — like cotton it flew free, dissolved drop by drop. Look — our land has become a pearl.

I am disgusted, I am irritated — I feel sleepy reading these old, worn-out tales of heroism: someone climbed a throne, it is said, and fought wars, they say. Forty-five minutes of time — I think: if only I could learn something else. When the signal bell rings for a change of subject and I see the history teacher about to enter the classroom I feel restless. If it were some enquiry-based subject perhaps I might have felt some energy. That is why, in the extra hour for history, I am absent. We who have just seen the face of school — reading the stories of Babur and Humayun, time feels wasted. Immersed in planets, stars, the earth, biology and creative subjects — the desire to become a scientist. History passes time away — offering it farewell now, would it not be better to read history of our own? The sacrifice and devotion made by the children of Gorkha should have been written in history.

O wayfarer — where have you set off? Carrying radiance on your face, now smiling, now pausing to rest — calm and clear as the Milky Way, leaning your weariness upon a stone seat to bring the morning again, carrying the set sun — wearing the mark of the moon gleaming on the sea, donning the sea itself as a robe, wearing the garland of green — with the horizon's veil drawn over you, wearing the rainbow as vermilion — embracing nature in your arms… O wayfarer — when will you return? Taking the morning with you, stepping foot by foot upon the dew to receive the Bhai Tika mark from nature's fairy.

I kept watching her — but she would only bristle more. I wanted to go close and observe her face — but she would push me away. It was always the same — a constancy. Why was she unhappy? Entering a bare and dispiriting autumn forest she would slip away quietly. I was unable to call out to her. Having passed through many springs and rainy seasons — she was sweet. Curiosity grew in me, wonder too. I asked the horizon — no answer there. Then I asked the dawn and received my reply: It is not just with you, is it? She is angry with all people — because the plants are being killed without mercy.

In the settlements of humans, humans fill every space — you, you (formal), I, they, those. O how clever is the human. Humans are bought, humans are sold — humans roll on, humans fly. Humans reach from planet to planet. In water, on land, in the air — human — today the developed human is everywhere. Humans weep, humans laugh — god, demon — all are human. Hungry, naked, learned, foolish, righteous, sinful — we are human. Sick, physician, avatar — human. Ruler and the oppressed — both human. Law and prisoner — human. One form but faces many — round, tall, dark, fair — woman and man — all human. The spectator is human, the philosopher is human — the one who listens and the one who speaks are the very same human. And yet there is one such human who keeps all others under his grip — human.

There was always a curiosity — to wait beside the path, like the love of earth and horizon — to be held in an embrace. She came one day like a blooming rose — filling the chest with longing, filling the heart with enchantment. Her arrival was the union of a lifetime. To become bridegroom and bride adorned in the wedding pavilion — that was the desire. Two heartbeats, one embrace — an unbreakable vow, oath, and bond. A sacred union — another world entirely — imagination carried us to its far shore. Bound in a new tie between the two, the world of love's bond is wondrous. The vermilion parting, the wedding knot — one day it dissolved again within the line of the funeral procession. Love wept — with the void.

That girl in a pale-blue dress crying and crying was walking away from my village setting. I had the intention of learning her name — something felt off and the questions vanished. Months kept coming and going, exchanging names one after another. Chaitra and Baishakh whispered in my ear. I glanced and felt ashamed of myself. She was wordless in her faded, dirty clothes, walking off toward unknown roads — perhaps this condition I myself created, I felt. One day the poor thing, naked, scouring through cliffs and slopes, running in every direction causing a great commotion — we were all struck speechless. Afterwards, gathering great courage, I asked her name. She cried out: Cast aside by characterless modern people like you — I am Sarita.

If we can understand, explain, and reflect — the world is shared property. There is but one essence. Let us see all religions as equals — God is one. Two genders — one caste. The world is one. Sun, rain, wind — birth, death — tears, laughter, suffering — one. Childhood, youth, old age, hunger, thirst, longing — the wish of the womb — one. Our faith, our belief, love, tenderness — one. Allah, Jesus, God, Parameshwar — one, many roads. Om shanti, world peace — let us bring peace to nations; let us not think of revolution. Let us recite the mantras of Buddha, let us make life blessed.

Change is the conviction of thought — it is my thinking. The moon seeks the change of night, the stars that of the sky — I seek the day's. Ideas desire motion, motion desires progress, progress desires expression. I myself seek change. The sky never comes down — we tend in that direction. The wind sings its raga, the leaves dance, birds set the metre, flowers smile even as they die. Winter casts its net, the peak drinks its frost. The cuckoo-dove makes one uneasy; when the cuckoo cries — spring comes. Old age brings death, some die, some sprout anew — on the earth, change comes.

Daughter, go to school — I have no means to give a dowry; rather, go to school. Beauty you have, a goal you have, rocking the cradle will be there in any case — and so I say: go to school. What adornment is gold jewellery? Wear the adornment of learning. Warmer than a mother's lap — go and read. The lotus is troubled by the ripples at the shore — the kasturi deer perishes by its own fragrance, they say. Perhaps somewhere your beauty too might make you like a rose that blooms in the morning and falls before the sun has set — be alert, be careful. Try to become a thorn — but become learned. Daughter, go to school.

Winding like a serpent, the road curves and bends. The groom's procession — long, trailing — came with its retinue, with trumpets and narsingha-horns, with the dhol beating. With thirty-two syllables of the wedding song the groom has come to fetch the bride. Bringing one splendid chest, adorned with jewels and fine clothes — bangles and pearl-strings for the bride, vermilion and betel nut — "I shall take the bride and make her happy" — the groom has come to fetch the bride. He brought a chaûbandi robe and a fariya, brought gold and silver jewellery. Today, lost — the kali laccha bangle. Still I will not break my promise — come, friends, raise an umbrella: the groom has come to fetch the bride. After the sindoor is placed she will touch his feet. Going to a stranger's house — the bride weeps. For two or four days they show love, then once familiar, the eyes begin to wander. The groom has come to fetch the bride. The heart grows unsteady, the abandoned ones fall into trouble. Before a year is out they move on to another. The turn has come to light the hearth. Running to the in-laws' for money — when trouble comes she goes back to her parents. The groom has come to fetch the bride.

Hearths that have gone cold must be able to burn again. Frightened feelings must find their way back in. The infant must be able to suckle in peace. The beggar must be able to live without begging. The sick must receive medicine, the well must receive bread. For eating salt and singing praises one must receive a word of "Well done." The scholar — for knowledge, the musician — for song, the soldier — for work, the farmer — for harvest, the writer — for writing, the hungry — for a morsel of food, the naked — for cloth, the citizen — for the constitution, the people — for the country — must sing of worth. The nation — for its honour — must receive respect.

O bird — whose fairy are you? Why do you weep all night long? Is there no home to live in? Why are you so single-minded? Whom do you call, and where — or has sleep not come to you? Can you not sleep even one watch of the night? Does that cool night breeze not touch you? Or did you fall in love with the king of seasons and then — did he slip away quietly and leave you forsaken — don't pretend now — could it be a separation has come? Those who would hear your love-call must be very rare. Without beauty — dark one — sweet-voiced one — spring's beloved — queen of the night — perhaps you are telling a story of love. Wearing a crown of fireflies, robed in the night, your bundle of songs — you sing alone. What raga fills the whole forest? Whisper it in my ear — O bird of the wild…

You did as much as you could — you ensnared some, made others drink poison, hid the cowardly inside palaces, made some keep a gun under the pillow, loaded some onto aeroplanes, turned others into paupers. Without you nothing moves, with too much of you there is terror, your absence is keenly felt. Even kings you made to beg. You set people against each other and lit the fuse on great explosions. Mine, yours, small, large — you filed lawsuits between husband and wife. You gave dignity and honour one day then ran such inexplicable advocacy no one could understand. Saints, ascetics, mendicants, sannyasis — you sent the devout on pilgrimages. You ran your machinations, charged prices nobody fixed, sent travellers out to loot. Coral, pearl, gold, silver — whoever had the nerve could buy as much as they liked. Pundits, lamas, shamans, bards — all made a spectacle of themselves because of you. You did not merely enslave people — you put the whole nation in debt.

O raksi — how many pegs are you worth? One or three? I will not take two. Give me one or else three. For this reason — two is a divided opinion: either you eat me or I eat you. You are three, your promises are three — the one who fulfils is one. You are two, and I am three. Peace is three — childhood, sleep, and death. The reasons are three: country, law, and people. Wisdom is three: books, teacher, and I. The worlds are three: heaven, earth, and underworld. Now tell me — where will you take me? Heaven? Then I will not go, for those who drink you do not suit me. Earth? Yes — I am right there where all die. That leaves the underworld — you won't drag me to the underworld as Vishnu dragged Bali. Your blessings are not lasting. While one is drinking — pleasure: you could buy even the king's elephant. And now I bid you farewell — your habits are no good. Well — you did what you had to, had your fun. Now, from my life, leave — and go somewhere far…

With the sound of the shehnai even beneath the veil the sun had risen — that rosy dawn had spread its light. Those helpless days — today, alas, the lamp has gone out. The frost has numbed that tender bud, withered before it could flower. There was no imagining it — no dream of it, either. Ah, what a storm that was — it snapped the bud before it could bloom, one certain morning. The volcano erupted, the mountain caught fire, the whole ocean overflowed, the world was laid waste. The flower garden has dried up — what spring will come now? All that comes is the memory of that moment of love.

Blink by blink, glimmer by glimmer — these teardrops, from the pulse of the heart to the ceiling of the mind, from the midpoint of the eyes to the ledge of the eyelids — why do they seep through? Hope, aspiration, trust — why do they sparkle again? All these temporary hopes. Lives wait in a long queue, grow discouraged too. Philosophy's need is felt: otherwise honesty and ideals could become the horizon. Unfinished sentences — a comma. Question marks everywhere. Somewhere the cup of intoxication will be drained and leave one exposed — futures spilled out of a torn chest. Where society could not fit into thought — when fire catches the mind, and the dew evaporates in the heat, the cry of feeling through the gate of the eyes, down every slope — a drop will fall…

Where do you search for it? It is in your own pocket. Where do you look — far in the distance? It is locked inside you. No need to count it — no need to number the days. Construction collapses and nirvana takes over, rushing toward that — gradually… The fate written by the future, the fortunate one who was told, the duties received as gifts — that word: so be it — slowly, secretly, resounding in every fibre. You are frightened, seeing it, seeing it. The journey from void to void — a solitary traveller. The years have not gone — rather you have eaten the years and grown wizened. Beat the drum in the city: let those who hear say what they will, those who do not hear will rest easy — and then they will say: the end…

In the lap of those white Himalayas, nestled at the foot of Kanchenjunga — below, the musk deer graze, the waterfalls fill the air with music: that is Darjeeling. The cuckoo lingers in the trees, brooding, the wild orchids sway in the breeze, that small stream rushes swiftly, the mountain boy plays his flute, absorbed — that is Darjeeling. Bees and honeybees hum, the sun too scatters beauty there, vines blossom knowingly, the grey wagtail chatters and chirps, the rain arrives — whoosh and splatter: that is Darjeeling. Even in sorrow she smiles, the queen, kindness to all is her nature. The herbs of healing flower in my breast — these are my silent, flowering vines. I am neither too cold nor too warm — come, wear the garland of calm breezes: that is Darjeeling. She dances with tinkling steps, wearing garlands of every season — the moonlight comes and drapes her in a white veil. She showers love on every guest: that is Darjeeling. Green tea buds are plucked, Mahakal Baba grants his blessings, where the cheated Gorkhas live, where tourists stream in endlessly: that is Darjeeling.

Weeping I came into this world — not a tear wet my eyes. Turning and turning, rolling over, I slowly began to feel warm. I knew no shame, no envy, no spite — I received kisses and affection. They rubbed oil on me and I slept contentedly — they all called me mother's. When I learned to say the same I found a bond, a kinship. Bah! Tsk! Oh! Nonsense! — I found a good guardian. I stumbled and a peer found me, blocked by a crumbling road. The alphabet was introduced — Brahma's letters — I came to know the Guru-Brahma. I was startled, intoxicated by age — I found a life companion. In moments mixed with tears and laughter I spent time in great joy. In the melody of a young woman's youth I swung into one sleep. Unknown to me I became haggard — a shadow rose upon my head. Is it a trance or a sleep? Flickering, wavering — somewhere, somehow — death appeared before me. All the deeds and acts of a lifetime — it asked for the accounts. Walk — there is no time left now, seventy years have passed. A few drops of herbal medicine became hard to swallow. The drops were stuck in a weak throat, the throat fell silent. The friends weep — they can say nothing. One ill omen hung trembling in the air. The dark moon has come — is there any power in creation to hold back death?

In your disguise — where were you, and now you are falling? You have become fearless — to leap from the cliff, to enter the earth like Sita — you slipped away quietly. They say the sun mocks you, so you went underground. Look — when you become lifeless, those young men and women immersed in each other's arms, exchanging vows and promises, coming to cool themselves beside you — the guests have been disappointed. To marry the monsoon leaving your father's home like this will be a mockery. By the time you dress up and come who will still be waiting? Countless fireflies, playing Dewsi in a line, sat on your bank. The red-breasted flycatchers play Bhaileni, flitting here and there — but I did not see them happy. Washing disappointment away you were pouring out. I won't call you even now — you might raise a flood, I thought. A lovesick one you became — there, medicinal plants need watering, irrigation is needed. Sarita — please come back.

In the swollen hands, in the cracked soles, the shoulder bearing the yoke — seeing the ox and buffalo God clicks his tongue in pity. Every drop of sweat becomes grain. Those who claim the title of happiness — the farmhand fills their belly. Hours of chanting mantras — how does the country become green? Sitting and turning beads — too much time has passed. The temple is there, but the mind is not still — where does God dwell then? The idol is there, it is silent — neither speaks nor smiles. Try cheating — the nation gets cheated. Try working hard — the helpless one's stomach fills. Those who ask only to keep breathing — make them diligent. Set the example yourself of dedicated action — the hardworking person needs no teacher: Eklavya taught us that. Pour out the sweat, teach us to live. Lift up village after village, lift up society and the nation. Being human you cheat humans — who gave you that right? Do not go begging to the next country — let us take pride in our own. Save every grain of food — build one wondrous storehouse. Save every single coin — take the nation to its peak. Let us come together, brother and brother, let sister, daughter, and mother unite. Let us flourish, bloom, and rejoice — where there is fragrance, may God come there. The blood is one, the love is one — let the bullets fall silent now.

Place it — take it and lay it on the corpse: no fragrance, no scent, it feels nothing, and there is no gratitude, it cannot speak. Place it in the soft hand of the beloved — with a shy little smile immeasurable love is contained within it. Offer it in some temple — it becomes a blessing. String it and drape the garland around someone's neck — it suits them well. Let it adorn the hair of some beautiful woman — perhaps pride has bloomed there. They bloom daily, giving beauty and fragrance — what desire drives them, who knows? They live only for a moment, saying this: "It would have been better not to be plucked." You pluck — well, pluck then — that flower, and then string the garland and offer it to the one going forth to save the nation, to drive out the enemy — he himself will go to heaven when he dies. Do not pick it — let it bloom, let it swing in the garden, let it endure the sun with the wind as long as it can, let it be drenched in the rain too, let it spread all its pollen, whatever it has — let it droop and hang — better there: there in its own place it has bloomed its fullest. In its own place it is most beautiful.

Moment by moment, breath by breath, my age has begun to run out. The desires of my heart remain unfinished on the far shore — the thread is about to snap. And still I must say — my selfishness is quite something, isn't it? Your life is about to end — you will see your son's wedding. Time, it turns out, is nothing but a season — how much has passed, how much remains? The learned, the wise, the saint, the mendicant give sweet counsel. The old is gone, the new has come — glinting, sparkling imitations. I will not stop doing as I like — I am my own great sage. The ache of love — never goes away by caste — my old wound. Because of this, unable to cross over, I found a sinking boat. There is much more to see a little later, but outside it is pitch dark. Who to take, who not to take — he feels and considers. The pot of greed is never full — no belch comes from wealth. The same desire — to keep flowing — the heart's thirst keeps running. Those ahead in the funeral procession have become corpses — whose turn is it now? A beautiful young woman — strikingly lovely — and the young man too is the same. They think and pile up sweetmeats in the mind: let life remain in good shape. Disease, a bullet was fired, anger drove one to drink poison. The arrogant one laid a trap for himself — Time looks at the age and says: a life wasted in vain.

O red kite — you who live in the eyes — you prick even the inside of my heart. When morning comes you bring gold with you. In the middle of the day you burst into laughter. At dusk, breathing the breeze, your form changes a little. When evening fell and frogs began to call, you became a sixteen-year-old girl. Most tempting and enchanting — very beautiful. Having seen the dawn you pushed it away just so. O beautiful one — you cast your spell. The body has grown old, the heart has not. Not enough wealth to make you my own. Your hair, long as a serpent — are you the moon's fairy? The constellation's sky has suited your headdress. This is your destined match. Never think love has broken. No anger, passion, or malice in you — always your lips smiling softly. What love must I show today — what style of language — I feel ashamed to fill it in. What raga do you sing — the song, at some point, went off-key. That is why my melody has gone out of tune. O cuckoo-dove, cuckoo, O washerman-bird — come and sing. Time will pass — put your voice in tune now.

By the wall of that road he walks — those who would scare him do not understand his language. The headless ghosts get drunk night after night. The boneless witches hold general assemblies in the latrines. The rooster's crowing before dawn passes time with him. The pigeons' circling gyrates without understanding time. The jackals' howling passes with the moments of night and vanishes. Poor thing — he cannot sleep. Day, night, and the tedium of time — a fire has been lit inside him. Change that cannot be seen clearly — he has turned to stone like Ahalya. He smiles gently, lurks in the alleyways. The police catch him to keep the city clean — they dump that life somewhere. People have become developed these days and no one recognizes anyone. The sweepers sweep the filth of the civilised. This is how my world looks — shame — the competition. That is why I have been thrown out, he says — where is it? The madman.

Trembling with a clenched fist the strings are being pressed — like cheap market goods without worth, bought and sent back, or demanded for free. In the clamorous city of yesterday and today, like me — many people, the Gaine's song and feeling — to expose the bare truth — from that same hollow belly of the sarangi, words full of feeling become song and, erupting with meaning from voices grown hollow, even so — only small coins are tossed. Sit before him… Listeners of his song may be thirsty and hungry — perhaps they are drenched. Certainly the old ones — they are called truth's expression — and yet the energies have not died. The uninvited, dishonoured thoughts are drawing themselves in together, to cleave that night's breast open and look out then at one's own courtyard where the sun has risen. Let them rise, suddenly, at once, from the grave — the people of ours whose intentions never reached their mark. Walking, joining in a long procession, let us overturn the pages of the constitution where rights are written down — so that those who will be born may hear the tales of courage: that string of the sarangi…

The first time… this mind and I — the left and the mind. I did not ask my mind, there was no need to ask — but the mind refused to accept my forceful demand. In this inner conflict I myself was caught in trouble. The second time… the mind expressed to me its desire. I too liked it — and the mind, growing happy, asked my permission. I said: all right. The third time… something happened and I stopped the mind. The mind wept. Strange as it is — from the very place where tears came when I wept, when the mind wept too tears fell from there. And so I thought: if that is so, why this conflict between mind and I? The fourth time… to myself, inwardly, I did not like it, and thinking "shall I or shall I not" I thought to myself. Thinking like this, asking myself and getting no answer — poor mind became of two minds. The fifth time… thinking "that's fine then" I, inwardly too, killed the desire and at last calmed the mind. The sixth time… if I had listened to my heart when young I might have done something. That time I did not act on it — and now at last I eat the mind's sweetmeats with ghee. The seventh time… and yet one day my heart ached. And to put the mind right it was taken to the physician. The physician said: right now my mind is not there to treat this. And I calmed the mind. The eighth time… this aching mind, for some reason became restless and restless. Thinking it might go wandering — I tied the mind down. But unable to thrash and die freely — perhaps — my mind burned. The ninth time… the medicine for this mind having not been prepared by anyone at all — the mind grew weary.

However it may burn — let it keep burning. Though it flickers and sways, though it gutters and trembles — the oil will not run out, for here the soil is fertile; the wick will not be exhausted, for cotton grows here. Piercing through the darknesses, pushing back the deep moonless night — let it always bloom full as a moon. May this country be such a place in the world that if any criminal eye should fall on it, that eye goes dead on the spot. Let it burn as the great sun burns — let no storm or gale extinguish it. For the welfare of the people of this land, in the temple of the human soul. On the borders of the country, one by one, on the honest flag of the nation — let it blaze with the light of the morning sun. To make this birthplace glorious and honoured — let a lamp burn here.

Now I will take no more oaths — I will not touch the copper vessel and the tulsi, I will not stand on green cowdung with a lamp lit. I will not touch the Gita, the Chandi, or the Veda. They must be set free — the voices that are imprisoned. The words, now become waves, are searching for a response. The anguish has overflowed on all sides — I am pouring out unspoken words up to my throat. The parrot-talk that was never uttered — standing inside the dock of oaths, I do not want unwilling advocacy. The information boards inside the pupils of my eyes are being read by those in society who can see and read. Its worth and meaning — a false oath is said to pierce one. Bearing children in a full lap — which is why, after death, to offer the shraddha and pinda, the son who should — while the husband was guarding the border I became a widow. I am a mother. My place of duty is right here. The dowry I received has been taken away. Before the rooster crowed the sindoor of my marriage was wiped away. Dressed in white clothes, I am a mother. A beautiful woman made ugly. No blessings were given at the wedding. It would have been better to have it settled from the start.

When I arrived those vines were sprouting, the flower clusters were blossoming. My timid goals were dormant, the vapours of the oasis were cool. The modern footsteps of science were striding out. The new stations of science were gleaming in the new sky. All my paths before me were open. Why did they follow me all through my years? Now in front, now behind — teasing me every morning, hurrying on, they moved west to carry the evening. Foreheads full of sweat and sighs — those who leaned on fate. In competition after competition — I, a competitor. Why did I run to seek one world? So many bravo-calls came — how many — and just as many came, the reproaches too. The years were seeking creation, and so many such years bloomed. I would see — a mist rising, covering somewhere — it became a storm and blew away, and then life rained down in the monsoon, thought swirled as dust. The coming numbers were crossing the wall — one, two, three in order… Those who said things kept saying: I did this and that. Unknowingly aging — every healthy face. Life's wick was burning like oil — where has it gone and vanished? It has become the past. The laps were full of love woven around the neck… But new stars keep rising and shining.

The long night that seems unclear — turning over on the mat, wrapped in a blanket in warm sleep, lulled by the village's old stories — perhaps because they are ancient — after the sun set in the courtyard looking at the world with open eyes, perhaps the cave characters will repeat themselves somewhere. It seems as though one lives on some other planet entirely. It seems those who went to heaven are there — there is an assembly of the aged, the wise, the learned. Hmm — when this body is left behind and gone, those who made this body — some couple might be there? After death the soul, has it gone into the air? Who will know me — saying "it is so and so" — better that the scholars of science arrive and build a colony in space. Let them take us as guards there — let them become kings — we shall wave the ceremonial yak-tail fans. If it exists — better than here — wives will go to their parents' homes in the land of the stars. I shall go as a son-in-law to the heavens. The children will go off on their own business. Maybe God's country is right there — let us see with our eyes the celestial joys. May they reach there — bless them! Along the road the sun travels — the lives that queue up in procession. Or else let physicians be made from herbs and roots: no disease, no grief — let no one who lives die at all, let no more bonds of love be added.

I went searching for poetry, climbing aboard the aeroplane of my mind, soaring like a kite — I flew for days, months, and years. But I found poetry like this: the desire to be absorbed in it was there. Having hidden itself in disguise across the whole earth — in the natural splendours, in the delightful joys within, in the manifested incarnations of literature — I found it intoxicated, humming softly to itself. On the winding paths of Deorali hill, at the wayside resting-place, in the gentle rain — singing a sweet song into the golden horizon — I heard it whispering. Now in the fragrance of the flowers, the murmur of the stream, the weeping of one parted from love, and on the flowers strewn over a corpse — I found it in the peaceful face of the dead and in the lifelines of an infant's hand. In the winter sun's warm arrival and in the shadow that follows step by step — in the expectation of fodder and in the hope of the chick that waits for its mother — I found it. Counting beads on the bank of the Ganga, some death, companionless — becoming cold alongside life, in drops that gleam and fall, in the ties of the daura coat and chaûbandi and in the sigh of a mother picking tea: I found it. In the bundle of forgotten philosophies, in the love of a bride given in betrothal, and in the joy of a soldier returning victorious from war: I found it. In the dream on the pillow, becoming an imagined tear of longing — in the red rhododendron of Chaitra and Baishakh, with the bird's song: "the kafal is ripe" — throughout the life of the rose: I found it. With the dove's longing, the marigold and velvet flower, the madal's rhythm, the swing of the lingey-ping, the jamara and tika, in the Bhaileni song, alongside the reunion of Bhai Tika — in the Tamang selo and the paddy dance, throughout our culture: I found it. I found poetry in the widow's empty parting, in aged, hollowed faces, in imprisoned prisoners, in the faith of lovers who ask boons before the idol, in the sacrificial animal, and in the life of a fish strung on a line of thorns: I found it. And poetry — in the lotus leaf of the reservoir and in the value of the soil poured over the corpse: I found it. And poetry — in the warm lap of a mother and in her loving kisses: I found it.

In the thick cover of the sky before the lightning struck — the yellow leaves were dancing, ready to fall from the bough. And then suddenly the flashes — on the surface of the earth to rebel — the word fell, abrupt. The ears are sealed. The nerves were trembling. The wind was silent. Dance over — behind the curtain of the stage — within my heartbeat — that day into infinity an echo — and those who were sheltering there: the hardworking, soaked to the skin, the embraced and the meek — but it was a blessing: that sound.

In that serenity and single-mindedness — you, Reli of Kalimpong, the cold breeze of the hill country embracing you — your destination unceasing. It seems to me perhaps you are one gift of nature, perhaps you are one floral garland of nature. You lure them as a river — those who would bind themselves in a new embrace. Being so very alluring you dissolve me too. In that solitude you walk along, whispering alone. You do not wait — sometimes you seem merciless — and I want to leave your company. And yet I cannot forget you — why! why!! Reli — I cannot forget you.