The golden-rimmed sun,
has risen back upon the battered land.
A land, which had a cover of green paddy.
A land where there was a dusty road,
frequented by strong-headed bullocks and sturdy farmers.
It also had a factory with a siren
that blared every day at 5’o clock.
There were the hamlets,
by which there were cowpens
with a pair of Durga and Gauri,
and there was also a fat, stumpy cock.
There was the sea-
the dearest friend of the people of this land.
It gave food to the poor and joy to travelers’ band.
But nothing is left.
Neither the paddy,
nor the dusty road,
Neither trees nor cows,
or the hamlet and the cock.
The sun is dim and mournful,
entwined between the leafless branches-
shivers the haunting full moon.
Among tons of corpses,
I do see a tiny broken courtyard,
Where an old toothless lady sits-
lighting a small deeya
by the wind-ridden Tulsi plant,
Shivering and starving;
yet praying,
to send back her nineteen year old from the unknown land.*
*The poem is written as a tribute to the thousands of families and households in Eastern India that get affected and are rendered homeless by cyclonic storms ravaging the land year after year.
