I love grand things.
The Peepal- the largest tree
of our colony- became the shed
for our afternoon games.
A second parent,
I would call it,
and the grandest structure
I had ever seen.
Ma said I went to the Peepal
when I first learned to walk.
The games- pakdam pakdai
barf pani, and posham pa–
were looked over by its leaves.
It was the games, we waited for-
in the morning, in the school.
I still remember how
we dug a hole in the ground
near the tree roots,
for burying a butterfly
that was accidentally run over by me.
One of the nights,
the wind drove the black clouds
over our houses.
The Peepal tree and its branches
roared in thunder.
The child in me was awestruck
with the storm’s grandeur
and could not understand
how something can be mightier
than the tree.
Black night, black tree,
Black fluttering leaves,
and the violet rays
tearing through the sky.
In the morning, I saw
the tree a little small,
and its branches fallen down.
I still recall
the wind’s rage that night,
its shaking of everything
I thought invincible
and that’s how
I grew to love storms.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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