My Latest Vist To My Father's Native Village Poem by MBJ Pancras

My Latest Vist To My Father's Native Village

Carrying hopes fullest within I set out to his village -
The village my father been born and raised in.
Knew not I the phase of his village earlier,
But sure he must have been well-bred fruitfully.
He'd said he he'd grown in his mother's love,
But reared under his brothers' words and guidance,
Until his boyhood his mother's lap had cradled him,
He'd crawled on the bed of cardamom amidst his village.
As a fatherless boy with his siblings he was his mother's boy.

Away from the village in his youth, he'd learnt letters,
Far in a college of studies ‘midst prayers and Rosary,
He'd been in the roll call of Catholic clergies,
Half-bred by the Catholic tradition with his brothers
He'd grown to be a teacher in his village school,
For he'd to oversee his share of cardamom estate.
His village was his mother's lap and grew in degrees.
The Catholic tradition had been his first teacher,
And he grew with rosary and Catholic prayers.

"twas a village of fruit and growth to be lively
In my earlier visits to my father's native village:
Swarms of bees and flocks of birds chimed there,
Bustled with folks and festive makers there was mirth,
Lushness had embraced the phase of the soil,
Exchanges of words amongst folks pleased everyone's heart,
Nowhere were seen weeds and thorns, but of roses.
My father had taken me with him unto his village,
And my earlier visits pronounced great meanings.

Carrying hopes fullest within I set out to his village -
The village my father been born and raised in.
It was in the recent past I travelled towards it:
Ways have been changed; routes been changed,
Sign-boards criss-crossed; rugged roads to move on;
Distracted bus services; Displeasing movements;
Challenging views of Nature ‘cross the pathways
I moved on carrying flames of anxiety and expectation,
And I thought it'd be a visit of newness and fruitfulness.

I was forced to get down the bus at a stop,
Where my heart couldn't trace any ancient stone:
Searched I for a sign-board, but nowhere was seen,
Seemed the bus man dropped me at a strange stop.
With difficulty, hope decreased, I took a way:
Rugged, weeds all the way, stray dogs all around,
Windmills in the vicinity pretended to generate power,
The path zigzagged breaking the main avenue,
And I was almost left at sea struggling to swim.

Looking for my expectations, my heart ran onward:
Searching for at least a little shop along the pathway,
I was to scramble through mess and spider's web
That had wedged the whole of the village.
New faces but unrefined criss-crossed everywhere,
I smelled strangeness from every corner of the village.
I'd let my memories travel back seeking their identities,
But in vain until appeared to me a street man
Who came out with his answers to my queries.

Countless questions with my late father's name I raised,
Possible replies from the man's tongue pushed me further,
Looking for my late father's ‘relatives' I hit their doors,
But in vain for they'd had their own business elsewhere.
Yet, with a hope I moved further to visit at least one,
And there I met my ‘brother' who's my father's brother's son.
Yes, I met him in his working school shifted to a new ground.
Out of emotions had we exchanges of dialogues for just a while.
I thought it'd be a rejuvenation of the dead bond, but I'm wrong.

With a school boy's assistance I moved on towards my father's place:
I sent my x-ray eyes left and right along our way
Trying to depict the existing scenario in my mind screen.
I tried to feel the vibrations of my earlier steps some time ago.
Through lanes I proceeded towards my father's house
Where I'd visited with my late father years ago.
It was a new but startling experience too hard to believe.
I raised my heel to reach my late father's ‘kingdom',
And it was a longing to build my memories back.

I raised my voice of call at the door of my father's house,
And there emerged a tall man in slender skeleton at my voice:
I proceeded further with my late father's name,
And we had dialogues of familiarity in unfamiliarity,
Two other female faces did enter the scene to share the words,
‘Twas not an established relationship for a renewal,
But a common talk to bring back old memories.
My eyes traversed all thro' the antique premises,
And I fixed my focus on the door of my father's tiny mansion.

It'd been already sold out by force and now on rent:
I longed for an entry, but there was a physical barricade,
Elsewhere the tenant or the owner had gone on business.
My camera phone caught a snap of the door outside,
And I let my eyes peep in through the veiled door windows:
Only shadows of my father's movements passed like clouds,
I sobbed within and regretted my father's loneliness.
It's the mansion where my childhood experiences reverberated,
To and fro I moved strikingly with nostalgic memories.

With ram shackled mind I moved out of the alien premises,
And walked I thro' the lanes rugged back to the main yard.
Gulped by demonic devices, the streets and the lanes lay bare.
‘Lenin's library' of communism stood on its rusty name board,
Where ‘twas a house of books with no letters to read.
There on my right my father's school stood insignificant,
While it was on my way back to the mouth of the village,
It's not a school now, but a boarding for school girls,
I longed for an entry inside, but strictly restricted.

Carrying nostalgic memories I walked back on my way,
And on my right I say a dilapidated cell ‘midst thickets,
Where inside my grandfather's statue still sitting as earlier,
But with broken feet and paleness shrouded on the lifeless mould.
The cell looked like an open grave with a stinking smell.
Beside the cell outside there was a mound, a grave -
The grave of my father's brother's mortal remains,
And there was seen shattered wooden crucifix unnoticed.
I looked back at the dead village and shed tears.

With shattered hopes of my expectation I left the village soil
I could not carry any pleasant reminiscences from cursed land:
Sweetness and lushness are ne'er to be seen back again,
All pomp and glory of the soil have been robbed off.
The sun rises and sets, but rays of productivity are no more.
I fled the village shaking the dust of curse off my feet,
Breaking my cords with my father's village and mansion,
For he's no more in his physical bond for ever on earth.
On the bus sitting I travelled back to the pavilion of my life.

I visited my late father's village after many years and had an impact of life.
MBJ Pancras

MBJ Pancras

Chennai Tamil Nadu India
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