The aged tree, once blooming,
Now lies decrepit, old, stale,
Barren, broken- but not quite dead.
And every year the cold snatches
The last shivering leaves.

The aged parents, once earning,
Now lie exhausted, wrinkled,
Shorn of life- but not quite dead.
And everyday the hundred curses
Snatch the last breaths away.

The shattered marriage, once satiating,
Now lie suffocated, crumpled,
Unpromising, broken- but not quite dead.
And each moment the waiting seconds
Sound a further death knoll.

The butt of a cigarette,
The desire clinging to the heart.
Like a squashed mosquito’s blood-
Throw the butt away, wash the blood.
-2\12\99,Calcutta-63

COMMENTS :

It would surprise most that this was to (and is) a love poem, albeit sad and hopeless. It talks of a hopeless love affair that exists out of a shoddy reverence to a shared past and the reluctance to snap the ties, only to escape the feeling of guilt of killing. But the mosquito is already dead. Wash the blood away.

The poem is mainly a product of three haunting images. The first is the latest and the least haunting, the last is the earliest and the most haunting- because it most closely resembles the original motive. Everything else, i.e. the baggage was acquired while writing.

This reluctance to snap the ties is inherently Oriental. The fatalist philosophy to which most people here pay subscription, induces us to believe that whatever happens happens with a higher sanction, and as such we are expected to pay reverence to this arrangement, however uncomfortable or unfortunate. Marriages are said to be made in heaven, but divorces are made on earth only. Unfortunately for the Oriental this snapping of ties is culturally and philosophically taboo (though not legally), and thus he/she is forced to travel in a rickety vehicle.