I.
On that divine-like hands and laps of thine, my grandmother,
Each moment I embraced a new learning.
On that tranquil Spring night, when the wave of stars washed over my eyes,
I cried—wishing to hold them
In my tiny hands. Since then, I learnt to cry.
To soothe my longing tears, thou didst sing a rhyming lullaby,
And spread a formless smile upon my face. Since then, I learnt to smile.
At the cooing rhythm of thy song,
Thou didst swing me—high and low,
In the air; my body, light as breath, danced upon melody. Since
then,I learnt to be thrilled by song.
A feeling, overflowing on the edge of wind brought the word of excitement
To my unawake lips. Since then, learnt to speak.
One morning, aye—as I stood drunk
With golden dawn, the waves in my eyes
Swirled with the falling leaves from a distant height.
The urge to touch them burned in my little heart.
Since then, I learnt to be curious.
Slipping away from thy tender hand, I ran to catch
A falling leaf. But—O fie!—
I could not catch it. I chased its flight,
But the wind took it farther still.
My eyes could not reach it as it vanished nto invisible sight.
Since then, I learnt to walk.
II.
I extend these words from the little heart of mine—
and that is my deepest Adulation to thee, my beloved parents!
I know not how I’ve wandered upon the Mesh of Age
to reach this mile of oldness—
nor dost I know how
I’ve rushed
over the many troubled obstacles
encountered through each age.
This little strange tale of mine, O dear ones, hath alighted from thy ***** hands.
In the kingly and queenly world of thine,
I expanded on the rhythm
of ineffable joyance. I know not its bounds—but surely, I cherished
the flower and its hidden honey
thou hast bestowed upon me
from the holy blossom of thy hearts.
Thou hast attained all my childly cravings
and adorned this sullen face of mine
with a garland of thy warm smiles.
Thou hast shielded me from all ailments,
given me warm garments—never
letting my body wither from winter’s breeze
or burn beneath the barnstorming heat of summer.
Mother, when hunger ailed my stomach,
I spelt thy name and cried
in dissonant pitch.Thou didst come
and place a plate of rice before me.
In the midst of night, when silence spread its wings and thirst parched my throat,
I awoke thee—and thou didst bring
a cup of water to quench my longing.
Father, what I must never forget about thee
is this: Thou hast shed endless blood and sweat
upon the earthly mud, so I may live this life of plenty.
I am grateful to both of thee—my beloved parents! Without thy presence,
I would not have come this far, nor so long.
III.
Mother, I've cried out the mighty tears
For one thing— and that's the signet ring.
I cried all the days and all the nights for that. I
Even refused to take the meals thou
Hast given to me from thy motherly hand.
Thou hast bought me the little play toy—
But fie, couldn't bring the harmony to these dissonant eyes of mine! The tears
Unseemly overflowed on its expanding Despair. I was a small and innocent kid,
My mother, as I saw that signet ring Glitter bright on the man's finger, it took
My eyes' captive away and made me
Oozed upon the mesh of longingness.
By then, I witnessed the tears in my eyes.
I knew not how to extinguish this burning
Agony of my heart— it seemed more Intense as the days passed. All of my
Energies lost to pale weakness. I seem To have had sleepless nights; tossing
And turning on the bed, overshadowed
By the ailing insomnia. I only wished to
Have it on one of my fingers, bright and Illuminating grace like a blue diamond.
It was thy love, at last, thou Hast given it to me on the final day
And cured the very tears of craving. I Heaved a sigh of relief since then.
IV.
Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge! Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!
Thou art my dwelling through the ages, my belovèd Motherland. How fair and beloved art thou! Thou hast granted me a place most fitting, wherein to make my long and joyful sojourn.
It is my high privilege to live beneath thy sky, to embrace the endless favours thou hast poured upon me. Yea, the joy I have gathered is as the scent of thy very soil—sweet, unspoken, and full of pride unbounded.
All that is hushed and still—the mountains arrayed in peace, weaving the vision of beauty; all that is rich and gentle—the waters that stir the tongue like honey from the comb; all that is of the earth—the never-fading clay that upholdeth all life. O, I knew not I was made so accustomed to them! Such fortune is mine!
My life doth blossom brightly within thy heavenly garden; and now may I adorn mine own soul, within and without, as the Camellia flourisheth in thy midst. Would that my life had no end, and my limbs knew not decay—I would walk the ages over, treading centuries down, turning olden days into new.
Yet all thou hast bestowed upon me is not mine by right, but I have received it as sacred gift. Thou hast given unto me shelter, and stood before me without shame, exposed and undefended—yet in truth, thou hast guarded me from all harms. Such is thy divine favour, O my belovèd Motherland!
Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge! Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!
Deep am I plunged into the bottomless well of pride, that I was born upon this soil of kingly harmony. It is thy mercy alone that I have reached this age in safety; for that, I owe thee thanks eternal. Such is my fortune!
What know others of thee? What grasp they of that honey’d essence, thick and golden, that floweth from thy very breast, past all mortal words to tell?
To me, thou art loftier than all the spheres—there is naught above thee. Such is thy might. Thy love surpasseth all value; not even an age of a thousand years would suffice to repay it.
Yea, 'tis sin to tread upon thy sacred body—but thou, being ever patient and full of grace, hast borne my weight these many years, weariness and all.
Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge!
Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!
V.
Mother, the emblem of love,
A residence of eternal glory,
A supreme fragrance,
The Utopian idealist—
Gifted one, strong existentialist,
Dwelling
deep beneath the vault of stars.
O thou who art called Mother!
Thou art the balm to our mortal woes,
The song sung in joy that time forgetteth.
Under thy celestial embrace are
we sheltered,
And the stars do bear witness
to thy grace.
Men say thou hast reached the realm of purest love,
That high and holy sphere where
few may tread—
A summit unseen,
Where the soul drinketh joy as nectar divine.
Thou art the ever-watchful keeper,
A mirror of the soul celestial.
And we—naught but thy
shadows,
The very shadows thou dost bear
in silence.
Behind thy lashes, tears lie veiled,
Yet on thy lips, a smile endureth.
Thou hast armed us
With care unceasing, love unspent.
As the sun warmeth the field of sunflowers,
So hast thou warmed the days of our becoming.
O thou selfless being, echo of the primeval mother—
The ancient Devi, whom gods revere—
To thee are our hearts forever sworn.
Thou hast tended us with unseen hands,
And in thy absence, all is void,
And nothing liveth. Without
thee, O Mother, there is no being.
There is no meaning.
VI.
In this very fragrant and heavenly garden of thine, my noble king, I am one of the blooming flowers.
Indeed, I had luck to be grown upon thy garden; and I never knew I would grow rich in fragrance, it's only the blessing thou hast bestowed upon me as a century-long gift.
All that I am embracing is none other than the grace of light that showers richly from thy own kingly heart, and it knows no bounds.
This small garden of thine, for which thou hast immense love, lies at one periphery of thy heart.
Thou hast carried it against all the trouble storms and protected these long years. Each day, thou hast tirelessly worked to give the very harmony to this garden of thine.
That's how all the flowers have come to bloom of their own each, so bright and fragrant.
As the very petals of mine have touched upon
Thy majestic hands, it gave me the endless birth of pride at heart.
How fortunate am I to be grown
Upon this garden of thine!
Each morning, I awaken not just to bloom but to offer thee my fragrance in humble devotion, for thy timeless love and care.
VII.
At this age of thy oldness, my grandfather, as I touch thy supreme hands, these intangible eyes of my
heart
break down in tears of adoration.
It is because of thy grandfatherly love and countless deeds that I offer these words to thee—words from my heart,
Long hidden and unslipped from the edge of my lips until this very day.
Knowest thou the time before the break of ****** dawn?
Getting up as early as four, walking upon the harsh meadow
Enshrouded in thick dew, fetching
water from far away,
Bearing the cold touch of winter’s breeze—two jerkins full,
Thy hands heavy, no torch, only the grace of the rich moonlight to guide
thy way.
Ah, had it been today, I would've at least helped thee carry one.
Boiling the water warm for our washing,
Cooking a rather-delicious breakfast,
Helping us wear the gho, neat and clean,
Then walking us all the way to school—on foot.
Ah, had it been today, I would've at least walked to school myself.
Thou didst celebrate the pain of love
in silence—like a man of supremacy.
All the days,
Tirelessly sweating and soaking
In another’s field,
Earning a petty ransom
For our welfare and school stationeries.
Ah, had it been today, I would've at least worked myself, and taken care of my needs.
Bearing a body heavy with tiredness,
Yet walking
To the school gate—wearing a torn jacket,
Folding thy wounded arms tight,
And waiting, alone,
Through the slow passage of time
Till the school hour passed.
Ah, had it been today, I would've at least returned home by myself.
I wonder—How thou didst pass half
of thy life with us! Taking care of us
All days, a ll nights—
Living in that small, ill-thatched camp
That wast never kind to thee.
But by the virtue of thy presence,
Day and night, we have grown—
Healthy,
Untroubled, and blessed to this very day.
VIII.
In this fragile land abide thy coy footprints, unwithered still;
And it seemeth to me
That the sweat thou didst shed
Lingereth there— a sacred trace.
I recall thy wounded hands,
Healed only through the blisters’
pain.
Each day thou toiled in the field,
Ploughing beneath the
scorching sun,
Cutting down the wild grass,
Feeding the herd,
And walking to the moorish hill
In search of firewood.
Alas! No slippers on thy feet,
Yet thou didst endure
The sting of nettle and stone.
Indeed, thou never faltered,
Never failed to carry out thy labours.
Each moment thou didst
touch
Turned hallowed in thy hands.
In thine eyes have I grown to this
age.
With thee, I shared my joy and
love—and from thee
I learnt to endure, to labour with
silence, to suffer with dignity.
Though I have walked through pain,
It is thy constant guidance
That shaped my every lesson.
Thou didst make of me a master in my youth—
Early crowned by thy example.
I must ever regard thy fatherly companionship,
Thy quiet mastery, which taught
more than words could speak.
Today, I behold thee changed.
The weight of years hath
overshadowed
Thy once-wandering strength—
Yet the fire within
Still burneth bright, unfading in thy heart.
Yea, even now, I see thee labouring—
Despite thy oldness,
Despite the burden of time.
And all that I am today, all that I live,
is built upon
Thy endless toil and tenacity.
IX.
The only heaven that ever hath
revealed its glory
unto mine eyes is thee,
My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?
Thou art to me a gentle
companion, and all the endless
remembrances that I
carry in one chamber of my heart
Have grown and stirred
since my youth,
Wherein I played amid thy
boundless
fields and ways. My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?
I know, when time did arrest
my step,
I left thee, and thou didst
weep in
voiceless grief
For many moons.
Yet surely, I too mourned for it,
For that parting was my
folly.
My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?
O’er the steady tide of passing
months,
A wearisome disquiet did cloak
the very
soil of mine heart,
Vexing me often, tempting my
hand to
weave strange threads upon
the loom of
memory.
Thy mystic love did ebb and stir
within me
In silent utterance.
All the visions that glistened
before mine
eyes were but images of the
fragile land
that bore me—thy gentle
mountains,
Thy hollows and streams that
oft did catch
my gaze, and the bright, laughing
dwellers
that peopled thy plains. Yea, the
sweetness
of thy fruits and the pure waters
that once
touched my lips
Have haunted my very sense
of taste.
And now, all my griefs have come to rest.
For I have returned—
And in thy majesty shall I lose
myself again.
My dear patria! How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?
X.
In thine sweet farewell, my beloved teachers,
Mine eyes break forth in tears
Of silent grief—
For our years of flowery union
In this school have
faded with the passage of time.
Our teacher-student love was deeply and utterly rooted
Beneath the very substratum of hearts—
Unseen,
Yet surely felt, a joy relished in silence.
We cherished our days through
learning and shared experience.
Together, we rushed against
the stony trials,
The vicissitudes of life, and thrived beneath
The gracious light of education.
Yea, even in our mischiefs, ye were
the gentle hands that bore our faults
And shaped our spirits—
Upholding our failings, guiding us forth
With the rich ornaments of discipline.
Thou treated us well, indeed, like
thine own sons and daughters.
Thy scoldings,
Sharp for our undone labors,
Were rightly given—else how
might we have ripened to reap
the sweet fruit of this noble academy?
Thus shall we remember
Thy unwavering care,
Thy steadfast mentorship
Bestowed upon us
All throughout our stay.
The light thou didst reveal—
Though once veiled—
Now shines upon our skies,
To guide us on through the
long passage of life.
But more than all, the sweet
fragrance of love,
That ever sweetened our young
days,
Came from the garden
Of thine own hearts.
And that scent, it shall haunt
us evermore. I claim it so.
With this, I pen off And I do pray
These humble verses reach thee, someday.
Fare thee well, to all my kingly and queenly teachers. And know this truth:
It is uneasy in my heart to leave thy kingdom to its lonesome.
XI.
O monk, how worthy is thy
long-sleeved robe—
Wide and dark,
Saffroned with solemn grace.
I, the lone wayfarer,
Do walk to thy quiet temple,
To seek thy blessing
in silence.
Wouldst thou lead me in?
For I bear no sin, nor scorn
within my heart.
I have withered the hues of
both,
Faded them to a glanceless
colour. O monk,
Before thou leadest me
within,
Let me not forget to bow
my whole
body at thy sacred feet.
Thou, at the edge of thine altar
hall, dost grant me the warm
floor
To rest this weary frame.
Thou takest out thy prayer
beads, ready to chant
Thy songs and sacred words.
O monk, shall I join thee in
voice, or sit in silence,
My mouth sealed in listening?
Ah—such is thy presence.
And thy costless
bliss, thy love and nobility,
Are divine gifts
That I ever seek to reach.
Thou offerest millions of
butter-lamps for me,
And for all kindred beings,
Here and across this
din-filled world.
And when I depart from
this place, let me not
forget
To extend my deepest
gratitude—together
with holy reverence.
XII.
'Tis thy mystic lamp that doth cast its immortal light of love upon our firmament. It is our pride to adorn our lives with the bright ornaments of gladness—woven in the garden of thy heart.
O Noble Majesty! Upon this humble shore of the boundless sea, we dwell in the harmony of unity. The fruits of joy are reaped across our fields by the sharp and subtle song of thy love.
Thou art the divine musician, whose realm is founded upon the reed-bed of melody. Sweet stillness maketh her abode within the halls of thy flute, and along the trembling strings of thy harp.
These mortal lives do dance, moving in accord with thy celestial strains; and our hearts stretch forth their wings of reverence, to bow low and touch thy feet with most faithful love and devotion.
XIII.
It's my pride to adorn these crown jewels of flowers to my heart, woven along the gardens of my life.
O, love of my life! Thou hast shone through the mirrors of tears. Thou hast shone through the strange vales of fears. And thou hast shone through the dissonant melody of death's flute.
O, love of my life! I never knew that it was thee and thy love. When thou camest by the threshold of my door, I scorned thee. And when thou camest by myside and toucheth upon me, I cursed thee.
O, love of my life! Yet still thou left me not. Thou hast given me a vortex of strength at heart to break through and against all barriers that bound my way. Thou hast given myriad births to smile upon my face to withstand grief and anger that come by flood of mob deeds.
O, love of my life! I never
knew that it was all thy mystic gifts of fragrance came from
the flowers of thine own heart. When I realise today, ah, it was thee and its endless love. Now, the only assurance that bursts before my mouth is speech of gratitude— with love
and reverence, in return.
XIV.
Beloved motherland,— I beseech thee, shed not thy tears when I do take my leave for evermore,
departing from thy fair and hallowed soil. A garden near to paradise,
adorn’d with a thousand hues of blooming grace, and an immortal sea of sweet perfume,
wherein I did steep mine heart with pride,— for ne’er again shall I return.
Oft shall my soul yearn to lie upon thy tender *****,
yet the path that once led me home may vanish ‘fore mine eyes.
Thus must I pour forth the fullness of my thanks from the deep well of my heart,—
for thou wert beside me ere I knew the light,
abiding from dawn unto dusk, like a soft melody breathed upon the reed.
Ah,— when first I didst draw breath within thy bounds, I came with empty hand,
bare of limb and soul alike, and knew not shame.
I was a stranger to mine own visage, beholding my self within thy mirror.
A lonely thing was I,— lost amid the hush,
possessing naught, and known by none.
The first breath thou gav’st me to draw
was thy garden’s own sweet incense.
The first draught thou didst bestow
was milk from thy *****,— rich as wine to mine infant lips.
And the first shelter thou offeredst for my rest
were the warm folds of thy lap.
Blessed am I, that I was born beneath thy queenly love.
How, then, can I bear to depart,
and leave thee lone behind?
Yet know this, sweet mother,— my life is no eternal hymn
that lingers ‘twixt the stars, echoing o’er thy skies.
What rendeth us asunder is Time’s relentless hand. I pray thee, weep not,—
for I may not flee his dark and fated gaze.
A poem love and gratitude.
