Kaliasote in Winter
It is the month of November, the onset
Of winter when the green grass turns to gold
And the rolling pasture at the tail-end
Of Kaliasote os covered in tawny verdure.
Herds of buffaloes near the bull-mother farm
Crop the turf, while under a giant tamarind tree,
Keeping up a desultory vigil
Over them, the herdsmen smoke their bidis.
Across the placid water to the north
The once green hill sports an unsightly growth
Of jerry-built government housing,
And blocks of flat all looking alike.
On the other side to the south,
A long low hill runs along the margin of the lake.
Here the forest is still green, though clumps of bamboo
Now have leaves the color of straw,
And strands of teak are covered with teak blossom
And stand out in the green umbrage.
This landscape I have always loved; with its hills,
Its lake, its building and its forest with barely trodden paths
Meandering off into the undergrowth and disappearing
Like a sentence that may lead somewhere,
Somewhere unforeseen and wonderful.
I have seen the contours of this landscape change
Like the feature of a familiar face;
A craggy old face that I have loved.
Despite the virgin forest cleared to make way
For ugly building, the wooded basin dammed up,
And the housing colonies inplace of the greenery
There is much that still remains on the right
And Brahma’s face still watches from the summit of Kerwa
Unchanging and unchanged.
