In
memory of that man
Writing
something about you is like
Trying
to make a swim through a sea,
Through
wave after wave of memories,
The
first distinct smell of you
Had
that peculiar mix of tobacco and shaving cream,
The
first distinct touch of you
Had
been to feel your palms a bit roughened,
And
to feel how those lines on them
Had
withered the ups and downs of time -
Partition,
independence, state of political instability, carnage, emergency, flood of
seventy eight, hartals, strikes, lockouts, bandhs,
Then
your smile, never too loud,
Just
a sweet candid one,
And
your angst - silence spreading over clouds of even more silence,
Your
writing hand curved and sparkling
Your
fountain pen dipped in ink –
Your
poems and stories, your sessions of debates and discussions,
Marx
, Lenin, Engels, Tagore, Vivekananda, Aurobindu –
All
turning like lively figures standing before us as if saying their words,
Your
recitation of poems, your acting at amateur theatre – glittering dresses,
swords of tin,
And
then ' Krishanu' and literary adda over cups of tea,
Mail
posts arriving with your name printed all the way from foreign shores,
You
teaching me cycling one spring day
You
cooking special dishes,
You
drawing a beautiful sketch of a train passing through the curves of hills,
You
taking us to evening show of a flick - shown for charity –
A
Satyajit Ray masterpiece - an adaptation of Ibsen,
Now
as time has moved with its winged gait,
And
as age has come and sat like a philosopher queen
Just
betwixt us,
How
I just think of you
As
a tree old
With
stories written on its bark.
On a Rugged Path -- Pauline Persing
