OUR INDEPENDENCE 2013
PEOPLE AROUND SANTINIKETAN
JOURNEY TO DUST
Times have changed
Or the change is supposed to blow
In the wind-like once Dylan said,
With his customary nonchalance.
He was a rather hopeful bloke.
Times can also get frozen.
Only the grass grows green
For the old man to bring out the time worn sickle.
Wow- it is still the story of the Sickle,
Beaten hard by the Hammer!
So, it is again the story of the sickle and the hammer.
Nothing to do – I have no political views!
But this is life around Santiniketan-yours truly!
Well, fun days never cease to sprout just from no-where
Life does represent an iota of paradise,
The paradise of fools?
Oh no, lets forget all the hyper-thoughts,
And enjoy the plunges into time immemorial,
Listen to the water giggling all around.
It is rejuvenating at times to shed all inhibitions.
Times passes or perhaps stand still as well.
The old man irked me a lot,
Sitting all by himself among a sea of weeds,
What was he contemplating?
Perhaps he needs to philosophize his links with life,
Among all these unwanted weeds spread all over life,
Again and again, in every age.
I never knew our Kopai was navigable!
In waist deep water, I cross to the other bank
To observe the boat-certainly a decorative landscape!
Perhaps an artist have planted it,
To complete his canvass.
Allowing the unreal to merge into a realistic fantasy?
What a juxtaposition of phrases!
Wonderfully this fan maker is wiping the sweat drops from his forehead!
Miles of walking to sale these hand held fans
To some tribal beauties, needs a lot of enterprise
In the heat and dust of summer.
Does these hand held fans exist today?
Should they exist?
But never the less they do.
The bitumen road slices through this near picture perfection.
It is like time slicing through the serene mood.
Somewhere along the line time does exist here.
But to convey what I could not fathom.
In any case this was a picturesque respite,
Time is more conventional here in it’s dusty and windy ways.
Bob Dylan again muses back…
‘The Changes Are Blowing In The Wind’
To some Dylan was realistic.
To me in India, around Santiniketan, his lyrics appear to be right from church gospels
To be heard and respected, but not to be taken seriously.
All his words, from the revered lyricist,
Seems to be emerging from that elusive paradise, unreal and surrealistic.
Where does this dusty road lead to?
People however are always on the move.
I have lost the courage to ask them where they are moving to?
And what for?
Perhaps it is just this seasonal cycles,
The ‘Rituraj Basanta’ indulging in fanciful dances around ‘Palash’ flowers?
Time here moves into oblivion.
A travelogue smeared with plenty of dust- the ultimate destiny.