Surendriya Rao |
|
MISSING MR. SINGH
I heard you left
right as I arrived
with newcomer’s eyes,
sparkling excitement.
After all, I was only a tourist
in your country of Hindi,
a guest in your home of Bhojpuri
following routes you took first.
“Look here,” you once gestured,
at a handprint on a door,
a dying man by a window,
an old suitcase on a dresser,
a neighbor’s tamarind tree,
fresh babul thorns,
near a truck’s silent horn,
one hanging leaf,
people crossing a road,
pillars disappearing at night,
planes against a red sky,
one by one, returning home . . .
Now you are gone.
How shall I set foot
without a guide book,
and no directions?
Show me the way you saw,
with eyes that catch
the sudden sparkle of sun on thatch.
I must make my own maps now.
(In memory of Kedarnath Singh, who left us on 19 March, 2018)
*
I heard you left
right as I arrived
with newcomer’s eyes,
sparkling excitement.
After all, I was only a tourist
in your country of Hindi,
a guest in your home of Bhojpuri
following routes you took first.
“Look here,” you once gestured,
at a handprint on a door,
a dying man by a window,
an old suitcase on a dresser,
a neighbor’s tamarind tree,
fresh babul thorns,
near a truck’s silent horn,
one hanging leaf,
people crossing a road,
pillars disappearing at night,
planes against a red sky,
one by one, returning home . . .
Now you are gone.
How shall I set foot
without a guide book,
and no directions?
Show me the way you saw,
with eyes that catch
the sudden sparkle of sun on thatch.
I must make my own maps now.
(In memory of Kedarnath Singh, who left us on 19 March, 2018)
*
