Perched on a water tank, high above the rooftops,
a bird was meditating on a spring evening.
As though he was a high-ranking diplomat on a silent mission.
Peace on wings.
Below, Indian Beeches brimmed with pride and blue.
My neighbour’s mango tree obscured tiny, tender fruits.
In my kitchen: boiled potatoes were waiting to be peeled,
plants were begging for water, dishes were soaking in the sink,
trash was stinking of rotten eggs, electric kettle needing repair-
From my window, I stared and stared, trying to name him.
Call him majesty? Nobility?
Larger than a crow, black, brown, grey mixed,
curved beak- I couldn’t quite read from the distance.
As I struggled, neck craned, pupils shrunk, balanced toes,
he remained at ease, least bothered by my bafflement.
He didn’t spread wings, flit across,
or shift his stance, to bolster my ornithology.
In fact, he was enjoying himself in his aura,
cool breeze, twilight, fresh scent of spring blooms.
It was his tranquillity that held me — sage like,
familiar, though we never met.
For an hour he stayed still,
as though in quite counsel with the Gods above.
And finally, I left,
reminded of my diurnal, mundane chores.
It was an ordinary day.
Yet something in him walked with me.
***
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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