Samardha Revisited
It is the middle of March, with spring
In full tide, stalwart trees stand knee-deep,
In field of ripening wheat. The mango trees
Are embowered in tiny, dust-like blossom,
That give off a fragrance that spreads all over
The valley like a heady distillation.
I come to a point where a track branches off
To the left, towards Samrdha, in fact.
Village women come and go with pots of water
Balanced on their heads or cluster around
A hand-pump
Other sit in little verandas
Whitewashed with quick-lime and cowdung.
A village appear with lots of speed breakers
Party torn down to city roads. Beyond
The village is an incline with occasional trees,
And beyond that, stretching to the low hills
Which shut in the horizon the forest.
But the stone wall which once fenced it in
Is gone, replaced by a barbed wire fence.
There is a gate with a barrier and a legend says;
“all forest produce to be checked here.”
But the gate is unmanned and I drive in.
Passing this gate is like crossing a frontier.
On one side is civilization and on the other
The wilderness, dry now but still to me
Delightful, I drive along the moorum track
For a mile, then turn back and come to a stop,
To listen to the birds fluttering and twittering
In the trees; waiting for something to happen
But nothing does, nothing dramatic.
Or vulgar.
Only a green bee-eater
Hawks around and as I come out of the jungle,
A black drongo, sitting on the back of cow
Flies off and the cow continues to gaze placidly
Without even looking up as I pass.
