A poem and some random thoughts

Last time, I felt this irresistible urge was fifteen years ago when I  penned down a poem with the title “The trees will grow in Dehra ”. I dedicated the poem to Ruskin Bond, the famous author whose stories captivated our childhood days with a magical spell, the vibes of which are still palpable.

Finally I could complete a poem  after fifteen long years!


                     ঠিকনা

                                                                              কমলজিত মেধি

আজীৱন কঢ়িয়াই ফুৰিছো এখন ঘৰৰ ঠিকনা

চাপৰিৰ বালি গচকি বাঁহৰ জপনা খুলি গৈ পোৱা

মোৰ সৰু ঘৰ য'ত

আইৰ আচলৰ এটা বনৰীয়া সপোন আছিলো মই

তন্ময় চাইছিলো অন্ধকাৰ খেদা জোনাকীৰ জাক

সোনোৱালী পথাৰৰ অবুজ টান 

"ববচা  বনত বকুল” বাগৰে

জাকি মাৰি উৰি যায় “বহলাই বহা” বগলীৰ জাক

আৰু কৈশোৰ যৌৱনৰ আলিদোমোজাত সেই

লিহিৰি আঙুলিৰ স্পৰ্শৰ মধুময় অনুভৱ

ৰেলৰ দূৰণিবতীয়া যাত্ৰাৰ যাত্ৰী মই

সম্ভৱনাৰে মোহনীয়া যাত্ৰা  মোৰ

চুমি চালো কত মহানগৰীৰ হেঙুলীয়া সন্ধিয়াৰ বোল

আজিৰ সহচৰ একালৰ বহ অচিন যাত্ৰী

বহদূৰৰ নামনিত আজি মোৰ ঘৰৰ ঠিকনা

তথাপি বুকুৰ গভীৰত আজিও অনুৰণিত

কাহানিও উভতিব নোৱাৰা

এখন ঘৰৰ চিনাকি সুৰ                                                                                    

The house was small but it had the space for all as some space had to be shared always for the commitment to the extended family. The evening saw the flurry of guests. The discussions over many cups of tea and snacks were endless and diverse from History to Literature, from Poetry to Religion, from Agriculture to natural disasters. I was a passionate listener to all of them sitting by the side of my father. I still can’t believe how my mother managed all the domestic chores alone and yet found time to look after us, those guests, read books for us and herself as well.

Nothing is static in this world and my place and home, I left in my fifteenth spring to join college, has also undergone changes over the years. The hands of my grandparents that showered boundless blessings have long turned into ashes. Going for an evening walk in the gravel road of once, where two buses plied in a day, is a dicey proposition now as unruly vehicles move fanatically with little concern for the pedestrian. The bamboo gate of our home gave way for an iron one and as we, the children, grew, the small house too grew in all directions.

Before I got married, my parents arranged a trip to Shillong with my then Fiancée and now wife as they thought would help us to open up unmindful of the fact that the long telephone conversations had already accomplished that feat. As me and Arpana ran to a hilltop, I saw my parents slowly walking up to the top. For the first time, I felt the pain of seeing them growing old.

A home is not merely a house but it encompasses the people we meet and the ambience of the surrounding, the innumerable chirping birds in the mornings, pristine greeneries with the hills as the backdrop from where the sun rises every morning, the recital of the holy scriptures at the "Namghor" and many more. Each part one got intertwined with the others to make a home of childhood. I can never go back to that home where everything has changed except my parents’ love for me. Be it by the side of the majestic Himalayas or  in an evening of raw exuberance by the river Seine or in those long drives through the hills and valleys , everywhere, I carry my childhood home and this poem is dedicated to it.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com