Belief

One should spend his life in quest of the things he truly believe in. A caveman living in Stone Age, devoid of all the modern facilities, who strongly believed in the master who put the blanket on and off the sky, would have been as proud and passionate about his belief as few of us might feel today, towards some of the present day values, like ethics and morality – Even though these beliefs might get outdated some day in the future – Who knows?

To believe in something is to LIVE with full strength. I believe that true freedom lies in setting yourself a code you wish to live by, and placing firm belief in it.It is the essence behind everything.

Spring

Should I call him a thief, or an uninvited guest? Either way, I have no complaints of these visits 😀
Greed is said to be one of the deadly sins. But is it?
Before having your food – All worked up
After having your food – Siesta Time
Mangoes are coming
Bugger

The Times

The squirrels have deserted the place. The stripes are nowhere to be seen.
The parrots have gone too. Such irritants they were. I liked sparrows more. But they have left as well.
The night has engulfed me like a blanket. Crickets are chirping all around me. They have stayed. They always stay. I wish I was as indifferent as they are.
The night is very still. I look up at the sky. I see the Moon smiling at me.
“You tried your best”, he said to me.
“Will you stay with me?”, I asked
“Till the end”, the moon assured me.

The days have been too cold and lonely. I looked at the fire. This is the last fire I have. Last fire from my last tree.

The tree is gone. Squirrels are not going to come back. Birds don’t want to do anything with me. What could I have done different? I looked at the axe lying next to me. You are the last possession I have, I said. And just like everything else, I will have to let you go too.

I see the flames going up as I put the axe into it. This will last for few minutes before the cold consumes me, I thought. I am going to sleep. May be I will find squirrels in the place I am going to. May be it will be warmer there. Maybe.

I miss my trees. I burnt them all. Could I have done anything different? I do not know.

Grandmother, tell me another story

Passing between lips, an ancestry reminiscent of
the chewed betel-nut grandmother transmitted
from recesses of her stained teeth onto palm of an
unlettered hand And again to my mouth.

Many years later I found myself teaching tradition
handed down by word of mouth. A cane basket we
put our socks in was stuffed with her stories.

It suddenly became a nest and
I flew with unknown birds, giddy and half asleep
seeking blankets of cloud in the maize field of the
mythical cat who sometimes ploughed the sky.



The cane basket disappeared when
a wooden cabinet took up residence
in our three-room house. Socks found a nest
and I began writing
the first few letters of the alphabet.

Myiem, where my ancestors prayed for their
deliverance from bitter winter,
where they wrestled with earth and stone
to script remembrances.

Today, lost and approaching fifty,
surrounded and imprisoned by books,
I sometimes murmur a prayer:
“Grandmother, tell me another story”



– I read this poem in the village of Nongriat, Meghalaya. These words took me back to my village of Ghazipur. The days when stories were an integral part of our life. Why did we stop telling stories?I could not find this poem online. I am looking for this book – Do let me know if you know this book. Thanks.