Thynroit
(A village in the Khasi hills)
Sickly pine trees in tiny clusters
On balding hillocks with grey grass
Fighting harsh battle for survival
Against bronchial suffocation
Of dust storms stirred up from a ravaged road
That winds up to the village church,
Where an elderly clergyman sleeps
Every Sunday morning amidst fluctuating notes
Of a choir of country girls.
A young pastor preaches gospel truth
In native dialect with some of his sermons,
His mind, however, pondering upon
The cuisine he'll be savouring later
In homes of the faithful
Who had been blessed with a good harvest.
A middle-aged village drunk
Shouts obscene warnings to a black bull
For molesting his wife's cow grazing nearby.
The village masseur sits in a rickety chair
And waits for city clients with broken limbs.
Screaming urchins in dirty red, blue and pink gum-boots
Stampede on the dusty path to the crowded watershed
Where their aunts and sisters wash smudged linens.
But when the sun sets behind the emptying hills
After the church doors have been locked
And the good book has been closed for the day,
A calm silence settles down on the village,
And the moon takes the shape of a clipped fingernail
While a dog howls at it in wolffish superstition,
Between echoes of mothers calling their children home,
Thynroit urges me to remember a village
In a faraway land I left behind.
Copyright © Ibohal Kshetrimayum | Year Posted 2018
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment