Own Master!
The roaring, fervent white water, when gushed out of the black serpent’s mouth, I looked at it;
The tempestuous mass, when met the placid turquoise pool, mollified;
Until it would flow out of its bed to quench the thirst of the fields of gold;
I would look at it — hours on end;
It was every year.
Through the many dusty roads;
Through the many potholes;
Through the bucolic fields;
Through the crops of gold;
Through the fragrant grass;
Amidst the chirpy sounds;
Amidst the following of gleeful children;
I reached there — and sat for hours on end.
I can still feel the tingle of zesty radishes on my tongue;
Separated from the earth in earnest,
Those roots filled my soul,
While I sat there looking at the fuming water calming down.
I remember hearing tales from the, then, young man;
He had a saffron turban wrapped around his head;
In his soiled shirt, he was clad in pride;
Wearing rubber slippers, he stood tall;
His eyes gleamed when he talked about his earth and wheat;
Radishes and Onions, he would feed me to my heart’s content;
I remembered that.
Today I went back there again.
The sky was cast,
The trees — bare-bones;
But the roads were fixed,
And the potholes filled;
But today, I heard no merriment,
I missed the jocund company of my little followers;
‘The children of the village now toil, but earn’, they reasoned.
The white-crested water now ebbed and flowed mechanically;
Today, I could not watch it for hours on end.
The wrinkled face of the once-young-man, now, belittled his years;
His crisp blue shirt and handsome khaki hat, had retired his bandana
To the depths of his cupboard;
But he looked small;
Today, he had no tales to tell;
He had no unrestrained radishes to share.
Imprisoning his shirt — which dared flutter — into his creased pant,
‘I wish’, he sighed, ‘I had some more time, and radishes to share’,
‘And Stories’, I thought.
But he too, ebbed and flowed like the restrained water.
Today, he was no longer his own master.