Pinda-Dana

There is hunger all around, hunger and thirst, The village folks standing half-fed and half-clothed, Away from the circuit of modern culture and civilization Into the country, Underneath the heating sun, Scorching sun and sun-burnt hot summer days And the hot wind is blowing, the loo lashing, The hot wave ruffling it all, Everything hot-hot, The hot sun, hot day, hot wind, hot season, There is no respite, no relief from, People sitting under the banyan, peepul and mango trees And passing the days with the wind ruffling it all, Dust swirling sometimes, Leaves too swirling at some nook and corner, Carried away and tossed up by the wind, The river bed too is dry With no water, With no greenery around. Just the broken earthen bowls, pitchers and half-burnt logs, Pieces of red cloth and the small bamboo sling cot Lie in here and there As the remnants Telling something different With the skulls flung far and wide On the deserted and lonely crematorium ghats. During such a time, the pinda-dana going on, Continuing under the shade of the mango grove By the side of the river Near the age-old peepul tree From which lay it hanging the asthi-kalasha Keeping the bhasma Of the passer-by gone away. The karta making rice in bereavement for kriya-karma Somehow in an earthen bowl, The havana continuing, The purohita asking for dakshina As and when to wind it up While the crows crowing on the other hand, People wanting to go home for food and water. Heads lie in tonsured and shaven with the clamp of hair Hanging from the crown of the head, Eyes looking tearful and laden, The heart heavy as for bereavement and loss, Memories coming and going, The towel wiping the tears. The crows crowing for left-overs or the handful of rice From the kriya-karma, Going after, following the karta and the purohita As for the feast, The blessing from the unknown corners, Telling of a country rent with the cries for food and water. Water, water, the cry for of water all around, the scarcity of it, A potful of water given to the soul In bereavement from the pewter pot, The soul feeling thirsty, The earth getting wet underneath, Thirst quenching. That day is also not far from when the crows too will not Be there to take food of, Like the olden-age at the ghat-taking Brahmins, The old-patterned for the samskara sake doing Kriya-karma Brahmins Otherwise who takes at the ghat Food offered to? On the one the pinda-dana is going on The other the purohita doing the kriya-karma With the karta asking for food and dakshina, Taking food While on the other the commonly folks talking of the feast, A mass of half-fed, half-clothed villagerly mass, The crows crowing for food and water, Yet to feast upon the pindas given to the dead soul.