In the stillness of/ A summer afternoon/ The white washed walls/ Of the fire temple/ Gleam bright/ Against the green/ Of the tamarind and/ The jackfruit trees.
Ripe, luscious/ With pregnant bulge,/ Lemon-green to olive/ The jackfruit hangs/ From slender branch/ Defying the laws of gravity.
It should have fallen by now/ It should have been/ Brought down last month./ It’s bound to fall, any day,/ Any moment./ ’twill fall on someone’s head./ Horrible thought!/ Instant death./ What a waste!/ Of what?/ Why worry!/ What has to happen will./ But the birds will have/ Pecked the fruit rotten!
And oh! Look at the/ Mouth-watering tamarind pods,/ Fat and juicy,/ Hanging from the bough/ Weighing down the branch./ They look like festive garlands./ What fun to stone them down/ And suck and suck the sour juice/ Till chattering teeth obliterate all sound!
The bells of the temple/ Begin to ring, mellow/ As the call of the/ Coppersmith hammering/ Out its song.
You know, the worshippers/ Would increase/ If targeted with sweet jackfruit/ And sour tamarind/ To suck after/ Their solemn prayers.
You can’t be serious!/ To lead them astray with/ Such gastronomical delights!/ Go astray, meditating/ On the food of life!/ What can be more divinely sweet/ Or heavenly sour?/ Shh! you could be overheard.
Oh! Let’s not digress./ When will the jackfruit fall,/ And where and how?/ Can’t someone solve the mystery/ Of that slender branch/ That clings so tenaciously/ To the trunk and the pendulous/ Fruit to the bough?
Shrouded in silence/ The fire temple shimmers/ In the afternoon glare.
ABAN MUKHERJI
mukherji.aban@gmail.com
The verdant ambience outside the Saher Agiary off Warden Road