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The  village  where  my  father was  born.
After  many  years
Still  has not   changed
Except  that    electricity   has arrived  ,
The  road  blacktopped  has deteriorated,
And  thatched-roof  houses  are  hardly  seen.
Yet  what  I wonder  is
As  I saw in my  childhood  long  ago,
The  village  road  today   is still  lonesome,
Cactus  and  wild  bush  plants ,in  that  quietness 
Are still  growing  here  and  there  by  the  roadside.
And  the sprawling  paddy  fields  are  as  calm
And  beautiful  as  they were seen  from  the  road  long  ago.
The  aged  banyan  tree  standing  in  the  meadow
At the roadside  is  still  in  its  grandeur.
Under  it, I saw my grandfather cremated,
Consigned  to  flames
When I was a boy of about 10 years old.

My  grandfather  during  his  youthful  days
Sometimes  might have  been resting 
Under  that  banyan  tree
Tired  of  wayfaring  or working  in  the  paddy  field.
Sometimes  he  might  have been  waiting 
For  somebody  he  loved  beneath it
Wearing  kurta ,dhoti,and  clogs .

My  father  died  six  years  ago 
And  I  today  am  an  old  man
Yet  whenever  I  visited  the  village
And  see  the  lonely  old  banyan  tree
I  remember  the  days   I spent  there during  my  childhood
Particularly  the  day  my  grandfather  died
And   cremated  beneath it.

The  old  peepal    tree ,
Growing  at  the  gate  of  my  residence
By  the  busy  road ,
Often  I  collect  its  fallen  leaves  with  a  broom
In  the  winter  mornings  and  burn  them.
Yet  never  ponder about  its  long  past.


12th August 2012

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