One Day

One day I saw the asthi-kalsha of my father hanging By the river-side old peepul tree of the ancestral hamlet, His dhoti, lungi, bed-sheet and kurta Being swept away by the winds And they being drawn and dragged. I saw, just saw them speechlessly Marking the things of life and the world, God and destiny, Just like the fragile playthings Made of clay and dust And said it not. What to be done if such is our life, Such is our destiny, And if such goes the world And the course of life, What have I to complain, What have I to whom? Again saw I the asthi-kalasha of my mother, Mother, mother, my mother, Hanging by the pole, Near the gate of my house And I standing stunned to see Mother is not, but her navel and ashes In a tiny earthen pitcher-like urn. This is my life, friend, Life and its times, One day with you, Another day will not be with, As goes this world Of coming and going.