Nilgiri1 Hills

Shadowy obscure hills and hazy vales Whose height is hard to see harder to guess, Wearing foggy mist as a wintry dress, While cloudy woods drench with wet, wet rallies. Where murky moons too feeble wax and wane, As stars of goodly grace lose Lumen grade, Twinkling behind the darkling clouds of rain, That keep flogging till they famish to fade. Or else there lurks gossamer fog To mock misty mornings that wake up late, As if to vie with creeping smog, Or else my morning jogs to suffocate. And the sun, playing hide-and-seek With milky clouds, showing dull face Once in a while, too pale to peek, Looks too tired of the game apace. By noon the fog begins slowly to melt As if to catch short breath if for a while, To gather but again tightening belt, And Sunny smile’s lost in a cloudy guile. And by four of the day’s diurnal dial The sun acquires a longish sad grimace, And as if too tired of his ordeal, Retires behind hills as if shorn of grace, To spend a penitent long night Of rest, to rise again from sleepy hills, With hope free from grey clouds, and bright, But I may add, only if rain god wills! The beauty of the hills, high eminence, Green bed-sheets like manicured tea gardens, The hilly girth’s hefty circumference When hazy does get, my grudge too hardens. And when the green drapery falls On cottages and stray hamlets, And when an unknown bird her welcome calls From hind drippy trees and flower bough-lets; And whenso my spirit, for long captive In smothering city space, wants her wings, When tiny wings begin their song native, Alas, fading light pulls last curtain strings. And left I am to dread long, looming night— Made longer by shy sun, and wet weather— O like a cow tied to a short tether, Content to cud in silent un-spelt plight. And yet, help seems nowhere in sight, For, Northeast monsoon dares and glares, And low pressure on seas flares over night, And it pours, pours as if there be no cares. Yet, even greatest of calamity Comes with small mercies from heaven, And I make good a rare sighting of sun With shorter overtures made a plenty— O pen in hand, thoughts of the hills, Of hazy vales, and leaky woods, A drink or two to kill sad chills, And a poetic heart that, what else, broods! ________________________________________________ Nilgiri1 hills: The hills in southern Indian peninsula with well known hill stations like Ooty, Coonoor, and Kotagiri. When I visited last time I stayed at a place called Wellington. During most of my early visits I hardly stayed there for 4-5 days at a time. This was my longest— over two months, and as it happens, excess comes with its own wages. May be, I chose the wrong time. But there sure was a silver lining as this poem suggests. I could put to pen a few poems while I was forced to spend long hours indoors eyeing the hills that were too close, and yet too far! ________________________________________________ - Reminiscences | 04.11.09 |