In this world I have nothing to conceal,
so stood the big pipal tree,
sprawly branches shielding the sky,
on an old square platform,
blanketed by green algae;
the paths from all directions
ended or began from here?
The heart of village gossips,
from Mussolini to Eisenhower to Mao,
local barber to bureaucrats,
the scene of discussions would hot up
under the influence of toddy
towards the end of everyday.
The archway to the temple of knowledge
opened up right in front of my small house,
green fences guarding the path,
thick growth, up above shaking hands.
Sometimes the path, intervened
by short-cuts between paddy fields.
My encounter with alphabets
commenced in the village school.
Sitting on the rough floor,
I drew the first letters,
with forefinger, in pink sand.
Then I was sent to public school,
In another village miles away,
the rightful choice for the poor.
My village -
with its verdurous vegetation,
fragmented by the river,
its branches and narrow inlets
piercing the land here and there,
an emerald gleaming in the sun,
neatly packed in lush green,
decorated with silver linings,
of the small water courses.
The inlets had palm tree logs
laid across, bridging the path.
Crossing the bridges en-route school,
miles away from my village,
barefoot, holding a dozen of books,
fastened together by a rubber band,
and a lunch box in one hand,
an acrobatic exercise of routine.
The path, created by footprints
of our forerunners, gave a look
of a brown carpet. Green grass
covered both sides, the mist
on them reflected the beams
of morning rays of the sun.
The growth of grass did not dare
to encroach the path, for fear
of destruction by human contact!
Alongside, the river flowed calmly
westward, yearning to merge
into vastness of lake, far away,
patting the broken banks;
herbaceous bushes drooping on her sides.
A rowboat or two passed by,
undulating calmly flowing water.
Trees and bushes reflected in the water,
produced a portrait of nature
against the background of cerulean sky
with snowy white patches here and there.
Except for the chirping of birds,
the children's prattles and the sounds
of falling auburn-tinted leaves,
calmness reigned all along.
A ferry and a hill intercepted
the path. Climbing down the slope,
between a pond at foot of the hill
and a field, led to the seat of knowledge.
Though not big, the hill raised its head
toward the sky, with its green crown.
Monsoon brought out fresh foliage
and doubled beauty of the crown.
Once in school, my mind used to yearn
for the blissful experience of returning home
in the evening, the same way,
enjoying brimming cup of nature's beauty.
Every creeper, searching supports;
every flower, unknown by name;
every sound of bird, falling leaves;
every image that reflected in the water;
all come alive in mind's screen,
at my wish. I learned to love you,
nature, from you. You taught me
the first lesson of natural love -
that blossoms in me everyday afresh
with flowers of innumerable hues,
dispersing an aura of fragrance!
Poverty is not a curse, but a boon,
a blessing in disguise, in many ways.
Outside my small, distressed world,
there was a world of blossoming nature.
I thank Him, who showered poverty
on my infancy. Or else I'd have walked a mile
to the next village, to be fetched by bus
to my school, leaving myself
deprived forever of my first lessons!
