Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 5, Number 2. November 2022. ISSN: 2581-7094
Encounters
with Teesta River
I
Way back in 1983 when a young
Green horn of 21 was looking for
A job, he had his first encounter
With Teesta. He met her at Siliguri
While riding a bus from Jalpaiguri.
The bus had to go up the hill to the
Hidden monasteries in the sylvan
Dreams. Teesta was guiding the
Bus driver to take different turns,
To cross the bridge from right
Or from the left on every culvert.
The bus stopped at Kalimpong
Against the liquor shops selling
Wine in variegated colours and
Flavours, Rhododendron, Rose,
Orange, Apple, Grape Wine with
Tinge of ginger and cardamom
In differently shaped bottles.
Silver white water flowing with
Ease creating a soothing music
Was the backdrop. The boys in
Their twenties were sitting with
Fishing rods to hook a fish here
And there. Sweet water fresh fish
Was being roasted in smoke to
Give a special flavour. A dog was
Sitting silently, near the stall, with
His tongue out, panting for breath,
Waiting for something; looking
Here and there, suddenly, he
Stood up and started slowly
Crossing and sniffing the road
That had been shining after a
Wash given by the god Indra.
The man near him, apparently his
Master, shouted, “What are you up
To? What are you looking for man?
There is nothing there. There is
Nothing for you. There is nothing
In life. Don’t look for anything.
It is all useless, all meaningless.”
II
The bus driver was honking
To alert the vehicles around
The corner on the hilly track.
Some nearby radio was playing
The popular Hindi number
“Ai bhai, zara dekh ke chalo”
(Hey brother, be a little watchful while moving on).
The Rangpo river looks the other
Way, they just take a right turn.
He was watching the saal trees
On one side and Teesta river
On the other; some green
Fields were visible and some
Cows were grazing, balancing
Themselves somehow. This
Was his first journey into the
Himalayas and perhaps
the
Last one too. Various
road-signs
Made me curious. “Make
way
For the vehicles going
up.” The
Lama on foot was
counting the
Wood beads in his Japamala.
He’ll follow his
foot-steps. The
Kundalini has to go up.
There
Is no point in coming
down now.
III
It was his tenth day on
the
Bank of Teesta.
Sometimes
He was looking at the
sky which
Was full of clouds and
sometimes
At the water below
which
Sometimes reflected the
clouds
And sometimes the
twinkling stars.
He was contemplating
with winds
And waves on the life
and the
Death that the job will
bring along.
The water is sounding:
move on,
Move on; don’t stand
and stare.
He is fixed and so is
his shadow.
The frosty winds freeze
his words;
The Lama passes by
without
Noticing him. He
remains unblessed.
He has to wait for the
sunshine.
IV
I am playing with my
top
Black button in the
shirt
And pretend to be busy.
There is no way I can
protect
Myself from the
chilly-winds
That are piercing into
my shirt.
It is not restrained by
any walls,
Boundaries, doors or
windows.
It does not require to
knock. It
Comes straight to my
heart
Without asking for any
address
It pierces the
sorrowful walls of
My soul without
realizing that
It does not have a
cover to hide
The pain. How will I
entertain
You, O friend? Better
look for
Some other house. Leave
me
To my fate. The Lama
appears
There, moving slowly,
as if
Counting his steps. He
speaks
As if addressing the
air and
The sky: “Life will
smile on you,
Why do you worry here?
Come, look at the star
there who
Is praying for you.”
The lamp has to
Struggle against even
the slight
Wind to give light by
burning itself.
The flicker challenges
the raging
Storm to sit across and
have a bet.
Nobody finds the moving
wind.
Its intensity is lost
once it pierces
The heart. The Lama
disappears
Chanting, “It is not
late; it is not
Yet late; have tea; be
cool; visions
Will be reality; have
enough hues.
Enjoy the multiple
tinges in plenty.”
V
My mind is buzzing with
Noise of the flying
moths
And the cricket’s
singing.
In the sylvan
surroundings
The statue of Buddha on
the
Top of the Monastery is
shining
Like the full moon in
the dark
Night of Ashadh
full of clouds.
In the Chaitya hall
young
Mendicants are
meditating,
Watching the moist and
cold
Air breath that the
nostrils
Inhale and the hot
breath
They exhale; some
curious
Visitors watch them,
some
Even try to emulate
them.
Everyone is waiting for
the
Darshan of the great
Lama,
The Guru as the
disciples of
Lord the Buddha waited
in
All silence and
calmness.
Have no thoughts; have
no
Pride; get rid of
prejudices
And jealousies; leave
them
Outside with your
shoes.
How can a thinking
animal
Survive without
thoughts?
How can a spending beau
Survive without
earnings?
What is right
reasoning,
What is right thinking?
The juvenile hornet is
trapped
In the blue side-saddle
flower.
VI
He the mature and I the
juvenile
Are entangled in the
vicious circle
Of Death in Life and
Life in Death.
The highest Lama says,
“It will end
With the death of
thoughts. The
Collapse of mine and
thine, loss
And gain, rich and
poor, freedom
And control, Whig and
Tory, Black
And White, victory and
defeat, hell
And heaven will make
the full moon
Shine on our souls that
with clapping
Hands will sing the
glory of
The Lord from whose
feet
Oozes the sparkling
water
Of the meandering
Teesta.
Remember the Mantra to
Shed your thoughts.”