Soon it’s going to rain in the villages,
Mixed reactions will describe visages,
Yes, there had been a drought for sure-
Old wretched lady, wrought torture!
Dusty children play in dusty lanes,
Armed with marbles, pebbles, canes,
They don’t know they’re going to war
Soon, since the showers are not very far
Away, they don’t know what to call it-
A boon or a curse, this habit
Of Nature – monsoons once a year,
‘Cause with happiness, hope, comes fear.
It wasn’t long ago that this season
For suffering gave a reason,
People were floating on seas of water,
Their houses and utensils did get scatter,
Walls dissolved before their very eyes
People clung to branches and uttered cries
Of horror, hopelessness and misery,
Some distance away, a plank’s a ferry.
Diseases spread faster than people’s slander,
Dreams of getting relief seemed ever grander,
Cattle floated, and thousands went to rest,
Also floated away hopes of a good harvest.
Now is the moment of retrospection though,
Life is normal; steady is life’s flow,
But for the drought the last twelve full moons,
All’s going to change with impending monsoons.
©Asiman Panda 2004
The Timber Trawler 