Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 1, Number 1. May 2018. ISSN: 2581-7094
Upstream Downstream
Standing on the suspension bridge
that sways and swings to the rhythm of
the mountain breeze zigzagging
through the cliffs
I look to my right to see the stream
swollen with the tears that
have trickled along the flow
few broken promises and shattered
dreams floating and wobbling
like the dead fish with their white bellies up
sun rays shining on them occasionally
but it gushes down and gurgles in glory
of its fullness
seemingly in a big hurry
to be subsumed by the estuary
not far away beyond which
the wild waves wait with
their open arms
a distant hope that seems so near.
Then I look to my left
and see a school of salmons
struggling and fighting the rapids
in company of few trouts
and together they swim
upstream to spawn
and finally meet their end
and their immortal souls
flow upwards in search of the source
and perhaps salvation
but before that
they give a new lease to life
to new dreams
new promises and new tears
that may ride
the ripples of joy
and flow down the bridge
and eventually trend
and
merge with the
mainstream
to become the
downstream.
Now
The river has dried up
its memory has deserted
it too
it can't remember
even one couplet of
the much heard songs of
the paddles
and the liquid whispers
of the boats
slicing
through its bosom when
full
nor can it recall
the ululating village
women
pushing on its once
flowing waters
hundreds of boats
carved out of banana
trunks
decorated with flowers
and carrying lighted
diyas.
The river has dried up
it's banks are bare
shorn of all vegetation
barring a few bald
trees
with no leaves and no
blossoms
but for a few clusters
of
dried up twigs that once were
the comforting nests
now desolate and discarded
and perched on their branches
are few nomadic vultures
waiting for
the foetuses that would be
clandestinely flung in the
darkness of the nights.
The river has dried up
and its solitary bed
is now the final destination
where the journeys end
and the pall bearers congregate
once a while
to light the funeral pyres
of the dears departed
leaving behind heaps
of ashes and few pieces of
broken earthen pots
and few half charred bones.
The reticent river
doesn't protest nor does it complain
and now in its mundane existence
it's no longer scared of its
loneliness
for it has discovered that
it's not really alone
but is perhaps
the confluence and
the meeting point of all
the liberated and emancipated
loneliness around
and within.