Are you listening?

As you get off the crowded bus,
Walk into the narrow stony path,
With green grass margins either side,
All you see is shade, struggle and life.

As you foot the twisted path,
Growing sound of the flowing stream,
Will welcome you with impounding coolness.

Soon the stony moist path
Will merge with the busy water stream.
Stepping onto the wooden plank,
You will note the paddy stretch,
Miles and Miles you run your eyes over,
Until it gives way to the fading blue hue of the hills afar.

As you walk the soil barriers crack;
Dividing the vegetation you behold-
Some green, some gray and some in gold,
Dancing in the bright noon sun,
Chances are that you will meet,
A man in seventies on a rock,
Amidst the green his innovation.
He will smile to you as you note,
His eager week but once bright eyes.

He shall keep his shovel aside,
Throw the beedy butt away,
And offer from his earthen pot,
Cool well water to quench your thirst.
He shall lead you to his dwelling,
Culmination of his tireless years.
You shall cross the sweet smelling
Garden he nurtured like his child.
He shall tell you the forgone tales,
Of distant wars and forgotten men.
He may tell you of his past;
Of how as a kid he roamed the umpire,
And how he slept on the curbs of lanes.
He may tell you of his deeds,
Of how he fought for his land
Or how he raised his beloved kids
With little more than sunshine and air.
He wont tell you of that thought,
That he concealed deep in his heart,
Of how he thought he could not let,
His children have their dreams in full-
Of how matter deceived his conviction.

But now o' traveler if you will
Go back to that remote valley some day,
You shall not meet the wrinkled old man
For he no longer sits on the moist rock.

But sure does he see the little earth,
Ans sure does he watch his own garden,
From somewhere in the endless skies.

A Turtles Life

If you tune your integrated devices to the historical data and search with a key -Heronwood drive- you will find that a marsh pond once existed there in the early 20th century -a hundred years ago where a fusion cell recycling center now stands. I was conceived there and born on its bank. Even a turtle like me can clearly recollect those days when a row of 11 human houses stood arond the marsh pond and lots of kids played, bicycled and patiently followed my mom, I and my brother Joe as she was giving us a tour of the area as a part of my early childhood training. That tour is the last piece of memory I have of my mother. Some where along the tour the amused human kids grabbed me and my brother Joe and held us in their palms. Then they ran into one of the houses and put us in some sort of a box. In the box was some water, rock and a dock and where we met a middle aged turtle from a different sect but who was kind to us babies. He told us that he has been there for several years and just wants to pull on. We just lay there in the water hoping to crawl out when we could. Next day Joe was taken out of the box by a human kid leaving me and the adult turtle in the box. He told me that it could be my turn next and I would end up in a home like he has. Some times living older has its benefits. He was right. I was grabbed, put in a green bucket and taken to another house on the street. With my turtle sense I realized that this is the house on the bank of the marsh pond closest to where I was born. Perhaps I could see my mom again..

It was not to be. I lived there just long enough to be sent to this place I call home - this serene wild life sanctuary. I have lived here for over a hundred years now. Care taker humans have come and gone. Some kind, and some not so kind. My days here are quite simple. I get my food, I have no enemies to fear from and I have fellow turtles to hang out with. I am still young and only a 100 years old.

Now I digress.

Back in the house near the pond there were three humans, two grown ones and one baby like myself. Whenever I stuck my neck out I could see the human baby bending down to look at me upclose and smiling. He talked about keeping me with him for ever and would ask the grown ups to feed me even if they have already done so. I thought to my self that you don’t have to be a turtle baby to be cute- he was so very cute. I took an immediate liking to him.

Would you believe me if I tell you that these days he still visits me almost every year in the sanctuary and spends some time with me? That’s how I keep the memory of my childhood so strong and alive. Over the years I have learnt that he has graduated from college, when he formed his Indy Punk group and when he had his first performance. He seemed so happy and I feel happy for him as well. After all he is the oldest friend I have. Occasionally he would bring his family, his pretty wife, his 2 kids and his cat. They all seemed interested in me, although I am not sure what the intentions of the cat were. Jokes aside, like I have always said, the human babies are as adorable as the turtle ones. The best part was when several years back he brought these twin babies in a stroller, his new grand children. I could not contain my excitement. I crawled as close to the path as I could to catch a glimpse of those sleeping babies. I was overjoyed and even had a drop of tear of joy. They looked so adorable together and for just a fleeting moment I remembered my brother Joe. Does he still live in the area and do he and mom hang out together and think of me?

Cycle of life...that's what it is. Just like my human friend, I have had kids of my own here in the sanctuary. Unlike the human kids they don’t stick to me for too long. I still see them, I watch them play and in them I see Joe and the twin babies of my human friend. Till my friend shows up again some time next year, I will lay here on the rock and take life easy.

The day I met my knight in Shining Armour..

* this poem is a parody of the message in a Fathers day card my wife gave me. The first lines of each stanza and those in italics are the original lines from the message and is credited to the card manufacturer. The rest is my take.

The day I met my husband - was he a knight in shining armour,

Today he shivers when at night I pick up a hammer.

The day I met my husband -I felt my world had changed,

Today I ensure that the oil in my car – he changed.

I glazed into his eyes and knew we would be together,

To day I stare at him and his knees come together.

A sweet charmer was he-gentle and caring

If today my coffee not so sweet, I fix his bearing.

He continues to bring change and joy to our castle,

When on Wednesdays he clears the trash in joy and dazzle.

Yes, my knight in shining armour was a hulk,

A man above all other men - today he is just a bulk.

Back to the Craddle

Whenever I had seen pictures of the Grand Canyon with descriptions of its grandeur clogged in superlatives, I have discounted it as a large overrated pit. I had learnt, with amusement reserved only for fiction that the Native Americans believed that the spirits of their ancestors came to their final rest in the ravines of the canyon. One day a few fellow grad students decided to rent a car and drive up to the rim of the pit and I joined in. We drove up north to Flagstaff, AZ a town with a constant cool alpine breeze owing to its altitude, and from there further north up to the south rim of the canyon. We planned to camp in the woods around the rim and hike a modest distance inside the rim the next day. Those days, being a sucker for hiking I was quite happy with the plan.

As we neared the rim, the ambiance began to change. The shapes of the trees were now more twisted and the branches more spiraled. The smell and the sound of the breeze indicated a definite change in the geography. The car was still going up the hill when we began to notice the parked tour buses and people gazing around with cameras. We parked our car and I began walking toward the rim. The edge of the rim was marked by a two feet stone wall over which some children were playing with the rather giant squirrels. People pointed their cameras to various points on the horizon before them. The sign near the bushes read do not feed the squirrels but that didn’t seem to deter some kids who were chasing the squirrels with huge bags of potato chips trying to feed them. I walked up to the wall and took my first look at the “pit”. The moment jolted me in surprise for clearly I did not expect to see what lay before me. Looking up at the skyscrapers in Manhattan or Chicago I had always felt an awe that triggered a minor rush of adrenaline as I would begin to imagine being up on the top and looking down from the roof. Here I was physically on top of a height way beyond what I could have imagined looking down from any skyscrapers. Beneath my foot lay the depths of many skyscrapers, the combined height of the Empire State building and the Seers towers and many more - and I was standing on the roof of that height. The grand depth pointed downwards to a slither of windy twine of the blue almost green Colorado River. Along the walls I could see the hikers moving down or up like ants - disappearing into or emerging from the deep brown dust that glowed in the evening sun.

My preconception of the canyon had now been completely erased.

I looked down at the enormous grandeur that was spread under my feet and my mind left me fixated on to the rim to wander. The draw of the site let my mind go beyond its routine of placing me on the roof of the heights for a simulated excitement. With my eyes lost on the unending layers of the ravine each depicting a time my mind began flashing before me with instincts I had not known since my childhood and as if they had been waiting all these years beneath my own layers to spring. This experience had nothing to do with my stated purpose of the trip. The vastness of the canyon space and walls seemed to re-define the fading profile of my late father’s life through war and peace well before I knew to perceive. Like a breeze the feel of him standing by my side brushed over me. I watched the darkening red walls of the ravine silently encapsulating the vast depths of the canyon. In its gravity, I could touch the senses that never before landed it self to me. The depth below felt as if it is related to the unfed depths of my own. It cradled me as if I had no mass. I felt secure as a child as if my fathers arm was around my shoulders.

I was being handed back my childhood.

The grains of passage of time are carved out on the walls of the canyon with unrelenting clarity. Perhaps all that I have known and felt in my time will too be preserved on the canyon wall as a speck some day. The sun was just setting on the west rim and the edges of the east rim glowed as if it were conversing with the sun. My eyes glazed in the spectacle of its final glow and even after the sun was gone I was left with the remnant of that glow in my pupils for many minutes. A cool breeze hissed in from the alpine woods, touched my shoulders and disappeared somewhere into the darkening ravine beneath my feet – perhaps to trigger waves in the deepest rivulets of the ravine.

I had never felt as fabulously insignificant as I did when walking back to the car.