My lost treasury

My lost treasury

P K Routray

I saw the light on the earth

in a rustic village

in a dark thatched cottage

with my umbilical cord

getting disconnected

from my mother

by an old lady acting

as gynecologist with a piece of

broken earthen pot as her surgical

scissor smearing burnt cow dung

ash as antiseptic powder

sixty five years back.

Out grew the village at fourteen

studied, served and lived

in cities and towns

finally settled in a city.

Now intense is the cry of my inner self

for this village, silently hiding

piteously in my heart

with cherished memories

devoid of any bitterness.

Childhood friends, loving lost nears and dears

sandy river bed, forest along

the river bank and water streams

changing its sound, shape and mood

rowing to cross the flooded river,

daily to the schools,

playing fighting on the way

paddy fields and village ponds

swimming diving with friends

angling, catching fish by the trick

of searching hands or net made

out of clothes cladding the body,

plucking lily and lotus,

mango groves and throwing of

stones for raw or ripe mangoes

there on the spot tastes,

the dusty dusk with cattle goats

sheep returning Home

cows’ heart rendering sounds

for their calves, search for

missing goats, ducks and hens.

Quiet night from dusk to dawn

darkness only lighted by moon, flickered

by stars, moths and wood fired earthen stoves

at times howling sound of jackals

and barking of stray dogs

and alien sound of birds

interrupt the serene silence,

coconut trees, papaya trees

china roses, flowers of various colors

and fragrance seasonal and across

all seasons as well,

creepers carrying flowers

vegetables and fruits

adorning the fences around

and roof over head,

rabbits, mongoose jackals playing

hide and seek in and around

the luxuriant bushes,

grandfather and grandchildren,

wife and hus band

carrying brinjals papayas drumsticks

over head loads to weekly market

across the river,

irrigating land from pond

by the age old traditional methods

potato, cauliflower tomato smiling

and beautifying the field in winter

the ripe paddy adorning the field

with plate of shining gold

evening bells sounding in temples

the fear of cremation ground

weekly market, annual fate and fairs,

propitiation, celebrations

community dinner and lunch

on banana leaves squatting on floor,

ghost stories, stories, myths

descending from generation to generation

without losing its glamor from grandma

I long for all

Just pleasingly so near

but painfully so far hunting

in memory aching my heart for ever.