(Not finished as yet, and Notes have to be provided…)

I see only one foot of the mother.
The other a pot tied to
A bronze pot tied to
Hundreds of feet below, below
Is below even the Pabbar.

The king of Sirmaur once
Called his slaves to carry the Mother
To Sirmaur, but failed
To touch her feet and seek her blessings.

* * *

Once in the month of Shraavan,
The pot cried out to his brethren
To the depths of the enraged Pabbar.
When Maya was passing by
The pot echoed out from its belly: Om
To write with the flood
Clearing the forests through the Chaanshil Valley.
The water cried – Om
But Ma said –
“You be my slave till the eternal flood
Washes me and you and I
Create another world.
Om me the beginning
Om me the end
Om the eternity
Om me.

* * *

For seven days and seven nights
The pot cried out –
Take me to Chaanshil O brother
To the bansheeras
Whence they told me the tale
For seven days and seven nights
Of the age when Ma
Came pregnant from Kashmir and rested
In Viraat fed by a Sangam of
Vish Khalti – Bishkulti,
Ranvti and Pabbar
For delivery and made
Viraat her abode atop Sunpuri –
The gold filled caverns
Measureless
Even to the paanch Pandavas
Who built her abode
On the Ardhnaarishwar – Sunpuri Tilla

* * *

My grand great grandfather
Once after a vision called out -
“Come brethren to Chaanshil ho!
There, the swan
A snow white swan ho!
Flying wings on wings.
With its flock
Fell and lost her flock ho!
Come brethren to Chaanshil
To see the swan ho!”
The swan told the herdsmen –
“I am the chariot of Brahma.
If you leave me, I’ll tell you
The tale of Brahma.
He was Time
- Samay who was
Born before Brahma
Before Brahma could weave
The illusion.
In the Krita age
- Samay played the nimesha
- Samay played the midwife
To Om to abort
The Trimurti
Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva
From the womb
Of the Om.

Brahma weaves the illusion thence.
Brahma on me sleeps thence.
Through the Krita
Through Treta and Dwapara.
Brahma sleeps through Kaliyuga.
Whence Kali called
The land of Bharata his age,
I escaped
As Brahma sleeps and weaves
His illusion.”

My grand great grandfather said –
“Come brethren to village ho!
Brahma sleeps ho!
The swan escaped ho!
It swells in pride and freedom ho!
But I say it is an illusion of Brahma ho, ho!
Catch the swan.
We will roast it
We will toast it.
It too is an illusion.
A dream of Brahma ho, ho, ho!
Come brethren to the village ho!

* * *

On Chaanshil
The bansheeras went in circles
Dancing.
When in the month of Pausa
On snow clad mountains tops
The fairies come down
To dance with the bansheeras.
The bansheeras danced in circles,
The fairies sang the ballads
Of ages old
Of Hatkoti – the old Viraat,
Of Kuppad and the Giri Ganga,
Of Pandavas and the king Viraat.

The bronze pot with his brethren
Tethered to a pine
Swelled with gold.
The bronze pot with his brethren
Heard them sing and saw them dance.
Left foot they went forth
Right they bend.
Holding their hands they went in circles.
The first held the second
The first held the third
The third held the first
The third held the fifth.
Left foot forth
Right foot they bend.
They bend their backs
They bend their knees
They kick the air
And the fairies sing.

And in the month of Shraavan
For seven days and seven nights
The pot cried out –
“Take me to Chaanshil brethren
To the bansheeras
Through the shersha re baag
Where Kunti and Gandhari
Fought over a few leaves of mustard.
Where Bhima wrongly punished
The Kujin shrub.
O! Take me to Chaanshil
Through the shersha re baag
Where the Shesh Naag on his sheesh
Still fetches water in a lota
For the paanch Pandavas
Before they leave for the unknown skies
Clad in white and formed as goats.

* * *

On the day of Sakranti
Before the day of Bishu
When my grand great grandfather
Had gone to pay his salutations
To the Kyaanlu devta,
He met his son.
He met his dead son
On his way back.
The dead son told his father –
“Father you cry and not let me eat.
In the land of Jama
When the jamadootas serve me food
Your tears fill my gravy, which I cannot eat.
Father, I am hungry,
I haven’t eaten
Since I died.
See these puris
Look at this daal
In this gold platter.
Soaked in your tears, which I cannot eat.
Take this with you and cry for me no more.
Don’t live so filthy.
You come on Sakranti,
To the abode of Kyaanlu,
There, Brahma sleeps,
Brahma weaves his illusion.
There, Banaad rules his illusion
And Desh Maholia ministers his illusion.
And Jama picks his dead illusions.
And Samay alludes them all.

I am a dead illusion
Woken, after a nimesha of Kyaanlu
I am a dream of the dawn
Half-dead and half-drowning
In your tears.”

* * *

Laankra looks on intently
Over the mound of clay, by, which
Bhima painted his hearth,
Once appeasing his appetite
In Viraat’s kitchen.
Laankra looks on intently,
Nakula and Sahadeva building
Tempe – the ghortus
While they grazed
The cattle of the potter – Gogi
In the harvested kiars.

* * *

At night when Kyaanlu sleeps
Banaad sleeps and Desh Maholia sleeps
Shedkulia creeps, through the darkness,
Guarding the darkness from the nishachars.

“Murder” – Once they cried.
“Throw him in the river bed,
And no one will suspect,
For we are the men of respect.”
But Shedkulia looked on and whistled –
“Don’t throw him yet.
Wait.
Don’t throw him yet.”
And Kyaanlu’s illusion was guarded.

* * *

In the month of Magha
We invoke not the deities.
They in their transparent bodies
Fly through the air
To Swarga – the kingdom of Indra,
To fight in games and ordeal.
While we live in mourning
On the unguarded earth.
In Swarga, the deities fight
Amongst themselves.
Many and many strange celestial games
And win trophies
Like the flail, a pitcher of water,
Two or three or four cubes of ice.

“Was it a quarrelling squirrel?”

“Ah! It was a nutty speaking, naughty squeaking, quarrelling squirrel.”

The bell around the goats neck.
Tin – tin – tinin – tinin – tin.
A knock with the horn,
Dum-dum went the garbage bin.

Buzz – buzz flew away flies.
Woof-woof chased them a dog.
Puddle-poodle through the water,
Croak-croak said the frog.”

“Does the fish say something?”

“Bubble-bubble-bubble.
Swim. Run. A big fish there.
Splash – Trouble – Trouble.
Splash – Bubble – Bubble.

It was spring again
With its beauty and charm.
The weather with its moderate temper
And the sky, blue, clear and calm.

The blooming faces of the flower
Similar to the laughing child
Entice the butterfly with its perfume
And the drone steals Kumar’s vague sorrow with its tune.

The rose, the lily, the narcissus,
The hyacinth, the daisies give me a jump in delight.
Their fragrant smell, their delicate touch,
Transport with pleasure my senses of smell, touch and sight.

In spring, smiles at us all,
The Nature, the Universal Mother.
Ungrudgingly offers us her treasures with exquisite charm
And brings joy to my heart in smother.

Of glaciers, it is the rarest beauty I can find
To give me so much, of spring it is very kind.
The snow over the peaks gurgling down in streams
Through mountain gorges with green countless trees.

The far away green grass covered with dew,
Making the world enchanting and fresh
With the spectrum of its pearls hue.
And steals my heart, this blooming view.
a
When Kumar is in a pensive mood,
He likes to remain mostly in solitude,
When the friends love, he miss
Then only spring gives him complete bliss.

When the spring is in its full form
The cuckoo bird with its melodious song
Wakes the frozen buds from their sleep
In me for love out a new soul peeps.

Of all spring is at above
As you can call it the season of Love
Seeing in action the symbol of peace – the dove.
Kumar forgets the temper and sorrow.
As love, only from spring I can borrow.

At time, waiting in my death bed.
To old age, my youth has lead.
I ask the Death to wait
Till the loving spring meets its fate.

Tell me, tell, O! Little ones
What do you want from the sky so blue?
Sweets and gifts and many toys,
Santa Clause has brought for you.

The days pass by and roll on.
Without fulfilling the poetic lust.
I fear seeing no soldier to fight with.
Might not my sword rust.

Myself I ask, angry with me, is she?
My life, the art of poetry.
Plead I to her, not to let the sword keep away from work.
For to keep it for ever dust free.

A reply flashed back,
Don’t ever consider yourself greater than me,
I let you g0o this time.
The next, I’ll stung you to death like a bee.

I pledged to worship the art
And found my soldiers were back at work.
They marched forward on the battlefield.
With a single beat on a parallel track.

My happiness and joy was back.
And my life back I had yield.
For the sword was in hand again at work.
And the soldiers marching forward on the battlefield.

Their noisy sweet chirp.
And, love with innocence.
I view them all in the sky
While I seek for independence.

I contrast myself to them.
They like me are at the youth stage.
However, I find self-simile to the birds
Next door caught in the cage.

My hands reach the bars.
And free them all.
It was nice to see them
As in the open sky they took a stroll.

The feathered animals were free.
But I was still there.
In the polluted, populated plains.
But longed soon, to join them rear.

The day is not far
When in the sky I’ll fly
Jumping in the open fields
Nature will be nigh.

Free air will be there
Will, will be the theme.
The liberate dove I want.
The bird pigeon is my dream.