“Damodar” and “Twilight on the Tungabhadra”

By Jhilam Chattaraj

 

 

Damodar

 

Out of the sky-window

I see sand ribbons —

 

narrow and dry,

holding the lush green hair

 

of paddy fields —

a patchwork of man’s hunger.

 

This is the year of sun storms.

Heat has swollen the earth with water.

 

But in Bengal,

meekly flows the Damodar.

 

The river breathes in puddles —

eyes of a sick creature.

 

Rage — reduced

to thin slush routes.

 

Body — tattooed in floral filigree —

ink of tyres trafficking sand.

 

Dam-o-dar — one who holds

the entire universe in the bosom.

 

But where has the bosom gone?

Flat — without sediments?

 

Yellow sand hardens into red bricks,

fills moon craters of coal mines.

 

Chemicals, sewage, oil,

decay — mistimed rumors.

 

I see the river.

The river sees me.

 

Dark, fluid wreckage

weal the face of Bengal.

 

 

 

Twilight on the Tungabhadra

 

Sunless songs

descend on the Tungabhadra.

 

Water ripples

over stoic stones.

 

In summer,

the river is a birdling.

 

It cannot swallow

human devotion —

 

torn saris, clumps of hair,

squashed lemons, gather

 

at rocky-breasted banks —

the price of a pilgrim’s progress.

 

Bells from Virupaksha temple

echo through the twilight.

 

An elephant arrives for water-break.

Monkeys squeal at its grace.

 

Wide-armed trees

gurgle winds in rough throats.

 

Sage-souled rocks

renounce gravity — mystic levitation.

 

I sit stupefied.

Yet assured of fluid silence.

 

I see you. Your quest

for marvels in stones,

 

for static tunes

to anchor floating hearts.

 

Perhaps, you are a coracle

waiting for a boatman —

 

to ferry you

from your ghat to mine.

 

We open and fall

like nocturnal florets —

 

an evening of slow trance.

A blooming, blue departure

 

from cyber chimera —

tranquil, ceaseless, perpetual.

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