vigil

little children 

from the village 

come to the mawas

for a splash in the midday heat

their little fair limbs

beat the waves

jumping up and going down

joys of childhood !

i watch from my window

and pray for this generation

and the next and next

let them have their childhood

oh lord!

i sense a moment 

over my shoulder

there he stands

looking ahead

above my head 

across the mawas

in to the woods

over the mountain

keeping a vigil

for the bears 

that roam around

and waylay little children

of the village 

********

and he came

he promised
he will come again
another day
and then he will
share his wisdom
on the issues
i had raised
i waited all day
and the night
watching the lane
between the willows
on either side
roses over the hedge
and off course
the mawas 
winding down
along the lane
i spread the piece of
freshly woven
carpet  on the steps
for his feet to touch
i cooked the rice
in the earthen pot
over the hearth of
mud freshly laid
i cooked the hakh
green with chillies
i put the yoghurt
in his cup
****
and then
he came
not galloping on a steed
not being driven in a chariot
pulled by a score of horses
yet he came
descending like the rain
drop by drop and torrent by torrent
drenching the soil
in my lawn
seeding it with divine shrubs
the mali said''sir this  the,
turf is unknown here'
where from did you import this''
*****
the rice in the earthen bowl
the fresh yoghurt in the cup
and the green hakh
i fed him with my hand.
*****
  

Visitor

it all began in a jiffy
a cloud appeared above my head
a thunder blew under my feet
a lightening struck around my chest
amid a deafening downpour
someone called me by some name
and before i could
 the door opened
and there he was
all drenched and soaked in rain
water dripping in torrents
from his brow
i touched his face
held his hands
touched his feet
they were dry
warm and supple
like that of the baby
isaiah my grandson
his eyes shone
like diamonds
his brow with brilliance
radiated light
we sat there
through the night
i sang to him
my clumsy poems
and he laughed
and laughed
a hearty laugh
it reverberated
in the mountains
and roze up
in to the skies.

sand and mountain

sand is
treacherous
slips between the fingers
shifts under the feet
never trust sand
and make castles
never draw
dreams over
this page
either on the
river bank
or in the expanse
of a desert
*******
********
 but the mountain speaks
the word of the Lord
 in the blowing wind
in the rustle of leaves
it speaks to me
of the distant stars
it speaks to me
of departed souls
it speaks to me
of the muse
sitting on a moonlit night
on the bank of  mawas 
composing hymns to Lord
and odes to the pretty dame
carrying a bale of hay
on her rounded head
and dancing with each step
a new dance
a new mudra 
the mountain keeps
my company
through the night.
*******
*******
with the first light
it falls silent
it watches
the world go by
keeping to itself
so do I
******
(ayaz rasool nazki )

i know

it was a dream
like real
in the foot of mahadev
i stood alone
watching the paddy fields
green and sparkling
then they came
few men wearing robes
looking around
moving about
searching for something
and then they said
''she has chosen
the blessed spot,
here she will make her camp''
a rectangular piece of land
was then marked
i stood in awe
not knowing
what was on, till eternity seemed to pass
and then some one came to me
''look sir, she will only listen to you
how can she spend the night in the open,
unprotected? will you then plead with her
to give up this thought ?''
I did go with them
there she was
a dazzling moon
bedecked bride
loveliest of  fairies
in her best
descended from heavens
 ethereal and pure''
i did entreat her
on behalf of the men,
but she in no mood to oblige,
till at last i offered her my little hut
on the stream
and she agreed
to perform her night long puja
there instead........
who was she ?
i asked the men , the devotees with her....
did they say?
only i know.

but you say....

mountain is a mountain
how can it be a friend
how can it share your thoughts
but you say, it talks to you
calls you aloud
and in whispers in the dead of night
when world sleeps
tells of times past
of kings and queens
of sages and hermits
of wars and love
of passion and intrigue.......
mountain is a mountain
ask any geologist
he will tell you
it's worth
of rocks and granite
of minerals and ore
of water and gold
all things in its bossom
but
the wisdom
of knowing
but
the history
of witnessing....
but you say........
*********

adieu

time has come
to pick up things
scattered on the floor
put them in to a bag
shut the window
on the stream
lock the door
move out
and drive away
leaving behind
a cloud of dust
and little children
bathing in the stream
women with baskets of dung
on their heads
gossiping men on the corner
under the tree
and chirping birds
on the bark
*********
(ayaz rasool nazki)