Today is once again a ripple of warmth,
murmur of the wind desultory, everything
is happening, with the loud speaker in a
fit of manic blaring. Doesn't matter, these things
happen as days pass in circular motion
with wind and stones narrating stories
of past. A myth walks across this land as gushing waterfalls
take on the realities, unraveling all that is hoary.
Go to Sohra and see the Nohkalikai waterfalls replete with stories
of a fallen angel rushing to death. Suicide, this word is modernist.
The past had no language, only expression, only action.
Ten years from now as the seasonal cycle will cohabit with
fluorescent malls and dancing night clubs
fireflies will gather in our mouths, on our heads.
Shall we once again dance to the tune of rippling waters, gurgling streams
and read the myths of an ancient land, timeless with boundaries overlapping
two countries, where trade flourished, and people knew how to love?
Ananya S Guha
Ananya : This poem was prompted by a Khasi myth and legend of Meghalaya, the province which I live in, in India.