My Village Pond
Not only a body of water
That cleaned my body year after year
Till I left Village for town;
She was the only source of soft water-potable.
No rivers nearby,
Many wells barren, and many,
Without fail, producing only hard water
That caused irritation, both in body and mind.
She also gave me protection for hours
From the sweltering mid-day summer heat,
In her cool layers of water hidden
Beneath her hot– surface water.
In her I could learn a rare feat—swimming.
Using a metal pitcher, its mouth upside down,
As a buoy, I rested my slim body on it
And tried to propel myself forward;
And lo! I could swim in her middle,
The deep dark layers in six months.
Learning swimming was
No less exciting or risky or challenging
Than my bike –riding learning very early in life,
And my driving –learning very late in life.
Being in her at noon was rewarding too:
Under the noon sun, her water so clear and still—
You could see below up to a distance
Of forty yards or so from her bank
Clean sand, fishes—dear pets of Lord Shiva—
(Who enjoyed seeing them from His Abode near –by)
Whom nobody dared to hurt, or kill for food;
And coins—paisa, anaa and what not—
All denominations of a rupee
And sometimes a rupee itself!
Irresistible to let them be where they were.
Some were also submerged in sand—
Every five or so handfuls of sand below produced
Something—a coin of low or high denomination.
Where they came from was just a guess—
May be from the ‘dhoti’ knots
Of forgetful grandpas or their hasty sons
Hurrying for their work-place,
Or thrown into her as donation for water-goddess,
Or by Lord Shiba, out of pity, for me, my friends and
Cousins —all toiling in the hot sun.
Whatever the source, the search and find was a sport
And kept in secrecy, for obvious reasons;
The money never reached home—
It was all spent on eateries on the way,
or buried near door step for use in future.
On her east side bank, at its middle,
Was a tamarind tree named ‘Maadali’;
May be 100 years old or more
Had a huge trunk of immense girth,
But many long and slender branches on all its sides
Laden with mouth-watering plump tamarind fruit;
But none, child or adult, ventured to go near it
Even during day time
For it had its reputation:
Funeral rites were performed under it,
And it was said to be the abode of the holy spirits
Of the villagers dead, who swung to– and– fro
In its branches at night, making merry,
Refusing to leave the Village for Heaven,
For the Village and villagers were,
So dear to them!
Age and vagaries of Nature
Have now uprooted its existence
I wonder where all holy the spirits have gone!
My Village Pond
She was, and still is a beauty and has,
On her banks, so many trees with flowers.
My heart ached when some stupid
And jealous inhabitants of near-by villages
Called her ‘Godaraa’ pond– meaning one that
Caused ‘Godara’,(elephantiasis).
Was it not mosquitoes, and NOT she
Who caused the disease?
Now my heart aches for a different reason:
Fish farming has polluted her body,
Human greed has poisoned her soul,
A few minutes’ contact with her
Causes rash on my skin a wound in my heart;
I can’t now venture to be in her
For hours, as I did every summer.
Beside her south bank is the cremation ground
Where only the lucky villagers get cremated
Who live a full life in Village and then die.
Dhoti knots--- to wear a dhoti, at least two knots are made in it at the waist level where coins can be kept.
Liked or faved by...
