The Webbed Grottoes Poem by Harish k. Thakur

Around the graveled path
Running through the criss-cross streets
And lanky alleys
Networking the cities Zamun and Lascovac
History mushrooms new stories
Into the veins of Gypsy air.

A gypsy boy shakes hand
From the horde of Roma.

Silent they stand
Glaring at the stream of history
That runs millennium back
As the group of Indian delegation
Looms around.

Another history is shaped
Near the confluence of Danube and Sava
As the Romas hug their brethren
From the land of their ancestors.

And then the long course of events.
The webbed grottoes of memory
Take short snippets
Of the forlorn glimpses,
Persian, Ottoman, Arabian, Balkan …….
And entwine a rosary of blood-bubbles.

The Bamti, Beldari, Dom,
Garodi, Gasai, Gulgulia,
Kandzari, Kolhati, Ladi,
Malari, Mianuali, Lahari
Nati, Odki, Phendari,
Sasi, Sikalgari, Banjara,
And Lamani, Sharai, Luri,
All beads of the same kaleidoscope
Shimmer in Europe
But to be clouded.

At dusk
When the darkness shakes hands
With the Sun,
And the shadows
Of the shanties and trees
Start flickering before evaporation,
A diffident flash of kerosene lamp
And the overloaded
Single phase of electricity
Culvert the new dreams
Into the drain of indignity.

The hesitant steps
Row against the porch
Of the city gaff
To greet the men
From the country of their origin.
A carnival to reproduce
The marks of old glories
They still cherish
Since they got strayed from India.

The early puffs of smoke
In the morning
Spring a new life
Into the slouched bellies
And pump in raw calories
In the feeble frames.

Should I stand for a while
To sense the perfume of the city
That the air jabbles against my nose,
And the velour of its sons
Which hasn’t gone in vain,
And craft the art of gypsy girls
Into the words curvaceous
To make an account?