thinking and feeling aloud on issues personal, universal
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Mother. deep,deep, deep silence ( Mothers Days May 10,2015)
NOT A DAY WHEN .....
Mother - deep, deep, deep silence
No words would be good enough, no feelings equal That little something that I stole and hid from you When every morning, before school, You put a little fragrance, some breeze, A pinch of moonlight , a little flutter Of peepal leaves frolicking with birds, All of this, and a lot of sun, a straying sun. And Its early rays trying to slink You quickly plucked the slinking ray Midair, and thrust it in my breast pocket Here, right here, near my heart, Here to stay as ages come and go Queueing up and passing in front of thine eye Stable,serene, silent, eternal.
In my breast and pocket still thrive Fragrance of hands kneading flour Memory of sweet savour of fresh milk Under the cow who would yield To none except you and her calf And memory - memory perhaps, 'coz You are not here this hour, Not here for others to see.
For the rest,its as it used to be.
Mother, saviour of errant God against sin Guarding Him against anger, pique, ego, arrogance Worried for Him and His churlish ways, Fearing eternal damnation and a Hell For God whom she wants always To love and worship and save. (For her, no worship without love)
Mother, You protector of wayward skies, and a friend Of clouds who sulk 'coz you haven't touched Their feathery back With the brush of moonlight which always dangled From your swaying hand Nor touched their moist eye ( so they seem to think) With your little velvety back of hand Or your silken glance of compassion Which always melted the gaze of God And His Will and His mighty stubborn stupidities
And this secret, mother, only you and I knew That you wanted a God to worship ( for nothing else was above you) But not He even. So you told Him "Behave as a God is expected to" And he behaved, just so That you could love and worship a God.
This secret, mother, only you and I knew Not even God , for frankly mother When you were there, could there Be another God? ( I know you won't agree.)
And above all, Those two little words and a half That always leapt up from your lap Leapt always up,and then sat back , Or melted at your feet, those two words and a half Wrapped in breeze,wrapped in shimmer Or on winter nights Folds upon folds of woollen moonlight Compassion, forgiveness and affection Ah ! the warmth that was being near you Warmth without touch of your silent contented scarf Which sat calmly on your hair Or across your shoulders Assured of serene immortality.
And here today, memories Of cow and her tormentor calf she licked and loved And loved as she licked , the careless brat. Here even birds to whose ancestors you were a hope And winds that would stray from the shrine So they could touch your cheeks Before for fear of God's wrath , they went their ways Yet not too afraid to cheat on Him for a touch of your hair.
Here too, the moonlight, the breeze and the peepal tree Poured in a cup and stirred for moon-shake
And here that calf licking playfully Your cheek, and then watching quietly, curious If you would be annoyed , but knowing too That you would never be. This And all the other things which I forgot To receive from you and secure and keep for memory
Here today, memory ..perhaps memory, but so real. Its generations gone by come to live again. And a straying sun and a midday moon All of it ,and a lot more- An eyeful of the glimpses you alone had Of God who dared not disagree With your insistent love for everyone Small and big, black or brown, All of it and a little more In my breast pocket, near my heart, here , And here, under the pocket, under a thick cloth, in my heart.... Here, a deep , deep, deep silence.
I am from Mahilpur, a village in Hoshiarpur District of Punjab in India and famous as the country’s soccer nursery. I graduated from there and did my Masters in English from the Govt. College, Hoshiarpur . Later, I taught English as lecturer at several colleges, including famous Baring Union Christian College, Batala, which was then run by American academicians . I later taught English and journalism at the Punjab Agricultural University, which had an amazingly popular and successful Department of Languages and Journalism. The Department had cradled the literary genius of Professor Mohan Singh and Surjit Patar. While in the University, I wrote extensively in newspapers and magazines on art, literature and social, educational and political issues. Also, some humour of the romantic variety.
In 1985, I was picked as Advisor (the post was then designated as Press Secretary) to the Chief Minister of Punjab. I am curently working with Mr Parkash Singh Badal as Advisor on National Affairs and Media to the Chief Minister, Punjab. This is my fourth tenure to the post, which has been upgraded to the present status.