Notes from the Tide Country

NOTES FROM THE 

Tide Country

There’s a mangrove tree in my backyard
and like it’s roots, I too spasm out of
this muddy earth- this is my country
my own silted land where your words
will remain eternal (and your love too ),

as the rivers shift, and the seas rise- 

you will still find me here manning that little tree, 

hunched beneath the shades of 

a mud-thatched universe.

I wonder what Gopal was wearing that
day, when he went inside the forest,
names of gods in his lips, skies asunder,
was there a storm in the high seas?
That night Seuli went mad in grief,
the wind changed directions and
everyone on this bank shuddered 

hearing the howl of the beastly gods. 

Early morning next day, prayers were sung

for the departed; I wonder what Gopal
was wearing the day he got lost inside
the forest, only to return three days later,
bare-clothed, emaciated- a five and a half feet
mud figure- the gods had spared him;
they took Seuli to Calcutta and admitted
her in an institution for the broken-hearted;

in the tide country, lovers often get trapped 

inside their own grief vortex- never to move on,
intertwined lives, all for love.

All for love.

For love, Gopal doesn’t speak to me,
it’s his son who does the talking,
‘He doesn’t speak since that day’
a speck of black cloud hangs above our boat,
in some distant imagined darkness, a tiger
swims from one island to another-
in search of a mate- love-struck, lonely,
ravenous with its animal desire
yet stunning in its animal grace
the story of  all the lovers in the world
- rolled into one gentle beast. 

Isn’t it so?

There’s a mangrove tree in my backyard, and

years ago, when the tide had threatened my

home, my life, my love, something came over
me, a dream or  a god you may say, and
he asked me to worship the tree,
‘ Do you see that patch of tree there over the bank?’
I planted them all and the gods smiled at me. 

You lie there in the bow of your boat, painting the
moon. The silence is comforting, far away from the
city and its hulabula, your pulse slows down,

 the GPS lets you know your bearings,
most of the time. When the world was
water many lives ago, you were home at sea. 
You check your phone  sometimes with a smile;
 and there’s a faint signal and sometimes you tell your
stories into the night and the forests witness it all;
the tides let you know that there’s beauty in this monotony,
and in reassurances and simple things;

armed with all this knowledge you store
them for the years ahead; your eyes glitter with
all the dreams you have dreamt everyday,
the sea breeze salts your skin, and you ask
yourself many things- 

who put the moon inside your head? 

When the world was water,
you were home at sea.

And when you will make your
own world- with  a recipe of swollen
rivers, tides, lovers, beasts, gods, and
all the beautiful things you have ever
known- I wonder who you
would turn to.