unburdened i walk in darkest
night. beside the water
my voice rings out: darkclouds
rumble afar. alone by the river,
with my harvest i sit.
the portugal street resounds
with this bengal song
the river flows unperturbed
midnight past. windows shuttered.
now and then two beams of light
rush madly past. unmoving,
the riverside cobblestones
are my friends, aged witnesses,
they sit up and cheer this mad voice
their smooth faces listening agog
to the roll of syllables
from a distant land, segueing
through nuances of ebb and flow
words bubbling from an eager memory...
just then i hear a boatman
calling someone on the river,
a voice disembodied -
over the water he comes,
gliding his golden boat —
not in the darkcloud Bengal rains
but a dark hull on this rippling
scimitar of water, the Douro flowing
to the wine-drenched mystery
of the atlantic beyond.
the voice comes closer yet, and i hail it
(it is my voice but not my own)
and he comes, i gather my harvest
onto the boat. "and may i go too?"
i ask. the tale remains the same
the boat, full with my harvest
has no room for me
leftbehind in the dark
i tread these cobblestones
leftbehind in the oilsmell of fogotten hulls
leftbehind in the yellow-light bars
cocooned with young lives
leftbehind in deserted neon bus-stands
under the girders of the Arrebida bridge
unburdened of my harvest
my footfalls ring out on the cobblestones.
suddenly
a car stops, someone gets out.
stiletto footsteps join mine.
do they think i'm mad -
my voice softens. gliding
like a boat she pierces the dark,
waves of perfume unfurling at her bow.
just then another voice, lilted —
a graceful cadence, a song
in the dark. i search for meaning-
is it a query, can't turn around
the grammar of civilization precludes.
for these moments, the stones and i
have company. and now my voice
lifts again, slow, unsure.
how strange she must think
this companion in the dark
and we walk together, separately
each cloaked in our separate journeys
and this voice bridging us with its
alien sounds - what meaning
can it carry?
yet, something connects,
something primeval in the human soul
lost spirits seeking a frail connection
in meaningless syllables, the rainsong
of a golden boat. the stones applaud —
with our footsteps.
at the next street, she turns
out of view. she has taken my thoughts
with her, into her lane.
but there is no room for me —
leftbehind
i walk the cobblestoned night.
amit mukerjee
porto, 14 april 2004
Note: the references to the golden boat taking away
the harvest, and the reaper being left hehind, is from
Tagore's sonAr tarI, a poem frequently recited
in Bengal.