The night of a plight from heights

The misty warm day
That insist to calm all day.
Where the sunshine had promised to keep a quest, everyday to the sovereign of western ghuts.
To take pride for having a dog-leg in the hills.
That already inarm the charm of white mists and give warm welcome to the sundry guests.
So there a dithery zephyr keeps the queue to blow in its withery path to make no obstruction .
In the vale of hills, a river flows in its own way,
In a way of no constructions.
The hills seem more pretty when they are blanketed by the tea plantation.
While gossiping amidst its alley on a foggy day,
Some ladies dotingly pinch the tiny leaves.
The blossoming floret and tweeting raptor were in a tunefulness to cheer the flocks .
They do have a rush in every morning
to win against the fog and to get in their chores.
Their love-laughter pursues even in the little chaos.
The very own huge banyan tree look amused and proud of its upbringing by the dear village.
Always give its lap to relap.
In the tea shops,
Newspapers open up in the west breeze
bored of hearing the daily chants of the goggle box
and occupied in the corner of the table.
Never checks the celluloid and obituary
Instead they Serves chitter chatter with tea.
When the prayer time in Brookside school;
Knell toll sprout a pause for the entire village.
They prayed played sung and ate together.
And the nearby brook has a jealous tone for that.
Yet flew melancholically.
Listened all the lessons of the schoolmaster.
And depart hesistantly in the evening.
In a way back to their dwellings,
the one and only daily transport of their state
was there to welcome them all day to hear
The little prose that their dear school master taught,
The applause for one’s filmy mimicry,
The funny boasting of neighbourhood aunties,
The eye to eye love languages of teens,
The church father’s caution about
‘speed thrill but kills’
And the white tourist couple,
Were admiring the beauty through the casements and taking snaps
along with the frolicking of the flocks.
Who never tired of the joyfulness they share when travel from the sunrise and till the sunset with care.
The eventide in relative houses, youngsters
Cooks up a brave duel in their jam sessions.
A woman in her second trimester
Being in a solidarity with her lullaby and monologue for the unborn baby.
It rains after some scorching days.
Flocks embrace the coziness and become lazy.
Rain poured again and again tremendously. Sometimes look furious and some, not curious!

‘Why are you become outrageous?
Why do you break barriers?’
‘Whom are you cursing at?’
Heard in a melancholic tone:
“They stop me, Exploited me for their needs.
Cease the flowing, build barrier in midway.
Made no carrier to move away.
Man compelled nature; a prey of his greed
Where no way to embrace the green.
Never given nurture for the future.
They rhythmically forked hills,
seductively buried paddy fields.
Upon them, gathered shadow of buildings”.

Dream interrupted in one’s sleep;
It was midnight
A night of a plight from heights where no lights. When the river began to reclaim
whatever they indulged;
deluged sludge trespassed to their houses.
Pleaded prayed but had not been prepared.
Nothing paved a way to save those
who were running to death.
No call heard ,
Hands departed, legs mired down in mud
and throats brawled for the last breath.
Everything that has life, snatched away.
The one who conveyed the news first,
fought well and conceded her life
In the depth of the foothill river.
The young valour who rescued many,
Found his last breath had been theft .
A brother while saving his younger one
gave his last word and drowned in sludge.
Old grandma’s vigour found shelter
Under a giant figure; once an agitator
Stands still teary-eyed being a part of their miseries
Until dawn breaks.
Barely any people remained in their lives.
Helplessly, they saw their beloved’s body
carried miles away
found decayed, limbless and dead dreadfully.
Their last sleep was in unity.
for them,There was not any way
to mosque, temple and church .
The country’s saviors
have done and dusted in legging up
And build a great bridge of succour.
All were equal on that battlefield.
For them, it has become
only a ‘search mission of the body or body parts’ not a ‘rescue mission of the alive’.
And still the stories goes on.
Now the rain gives no pleasure and coziness. Thunder feel like a blast of gigantic rocks.
They found the green landscapes
to say something tremble.
The barren land
now echoes with confession and death calls. Somewhere in the depth,
moaning of secluded body parts was heard.
The remained drivers of the state transport,
Now miserably feels for the void and
Kept waiting for the leftover passengers In life.
Their very own banyan tree was still there
as a silent witness ,being collapsed inside.
yet it continues to provide shelter afterward.
In the town, there were not any tea shops
but shelter for thousands.
Having no more emotion left, they are as if dead.
The coloured obituary flows out of the pages!
One’s body rest as pieces in many grave!
No name unless the code!
Can anybody search for the rest?
Can we pacify those who are traumatized?
Can we give life to those who have parted ways? Will our mirth need to depend on the beauty
of this earth anymore?
Will they yearn for the next monsoon
even if they get burned in the summer?
Or will they forget it forever?