FRIDAY, APRIL 19, 2024
As I ruminate over the destruction, I have seen in my lifetime, I ask myself; who is responsible? The answer I find as Bob Dylan found is blowin’ in the wind. Literally so, as you may see, by the time you have read this, through. Here I seek to elaborate on it, in this attempt at verse.
A cool breeze rustles my long unruly hair
Trails, slalom around palm trees, everywhere
Feet sink in deep soft white sand, before
I reach the fields of my village, by the shore
The tamarind wind sighs; the palm trees swing,
Lotus a furious pink; lilies a glorious white, bloom
On the calm surface of the slimy pond, by the rim
That simmers under a searing sun, past noon.
I stand on the bank, an earthworm wriggles
On a line with no hook, attached to the cane
I dip in the water, to create a tsunami of ripples
Unwary mosquito-fish rush in, sensing gain
I flick the cane, the first fish to bite, flies in the air.
My pet egret grabs it, swallows it, without care
Head first; even before it lands or is dead
A few more flicks and the egret is full, fed
Now free, I wander lonely as a cloud that
floats on high.
In my tropic land, no golden daffodils,
greet my eye
Old growth trees soar into the sky,
underneath display
Colourful flowers that would make
Wordsworth’s day
Candle bush and Indian mallow in bright yellow
Cat’s claw and crab’s eye in purple, vie with myrtle
Spanish needle and English daisy, delight, in white
Morning glory and butterfly pea look so true,
in blue
The weaver birds have bred and left, forlorn
Their nests hanging from drying palm fronds,
Like oversized p***s and scrotums, woven
From a mix of shred palm leaf and dry lawn
As I walk, I hear in my mind’s ear
A gruff voice sing, loud and clear
I see trees of green red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world!
Some five decades and more have passed by
Since the liberators came, thro’ Operation Vijay
My old haunts beckon me; I cannot resist the call
Of my sleepy little village; that has seen it all
I arrive at a fork in the meandering track
I look east and west; I look right and left
The left is overgrown; slipshod
The right is clear; well trod
Unlike Frost, I take the one, more travelled, for
I wish to dip my cane in that pond, once more
The woods no longer are lovely dark or deep
What I do not see, in sorrow makes me weep
The palm trees have been felled and carted away
The weaver birds are lost, with no place to play
No more, do I see the giant trees pierce the sky
No more, do I hear the melody of birds ever so high
No more, do I find the wind rustle the flowers, the leaves
All I do see are a few natives, in a land that grieves
The pond I trekked to see is filled up, built upon
The farmers, the shepherds, the toilers, are all gone
Konkani, my language is understood by no one
All that remains is the legend of Parashuram!
This time, I hear a mellow song
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the flowers gone?
I walk home sore and sullen, at the decay
Brought by those who came, only to betray
This land passed to us, by our fathers’ hand
Now forever lost, with little hope of mend
My weary eyes alight on flags
These flutter in the breeze like rags
And behold! on one, I found
The lotus stolen from my pond!
And on the other, the hand
That has filled my pond with sand!
Alas! When the time did come for change
All that you and I did was merely rearrange
The king, queen and pieces on the board
Until the same ragged flags get restored!
Must we blame somebody else?
For this evident self-made mess
Can you not distinctly hear this time?
The Nobel Laureate’s lament and rhyme
Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind
Having read, you may listen to Louis Armstrong sing What a Wonderful World, Peter Seeger’s Where Have all the Flowers Gone and Dylan’s Blowin’ in the wind. The first may elevate you the second bring in melancholy and the last make you thoughtful. You may also go through the Wordsworth classic I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud and Nehru’s favourite The Road Less Traveled by Robert Frost. It should get you into the context of what I have said, if you have not already got it.
(Radharao F. Gracias is a senior Trial Court Advocate, a former Independent MLA and a political activist)
