Those Two Tender Eyes Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

The early morning's languorous mild sun
Seemed weary from a nightlong tiring walk,
And shared none of dawn's misty dewy mock-
Play with the passing clouds' hide-and-seek fun,
Nor yet was keen for croaky welcome calls
Of fowls from the dunghill fraternity
Behind the river bank's wilting old walls,
Lived wherein town's Muslim community.

And I walked past the river's meagre flow—
Its exposed sands awaited good monsoon,
And green patches, struggled wherein some crops—
Melons shimmered with early morn's dew drops—
Twain of rotund fruits of frothy hot June—
The muskmelon of marigold yellow,
Her cousin: watermelon white and red,
Easy that grew in milky riverbed.

But my eyes, weary of the same river,
Had had enough of these summertime fruits,
Of farms, its flora on the river bank,
Of dry desert of her sandy silver,
Of morning walkers, of labour recruits,
And yea, the dry scenario and still dank,
For, my eyes looked for two-some tender eyes
That always looked vague under open skies.

Two pensive eyes upon frail little frame,
And yet, too sharp and searching for her age—
Of ten or there about— that ever came
From folks known for frenzied, far off image,
Yet, oft few fit in a notorious name—
Only by few is made history's page.
How magnetic can be such soft-hued eyes?
I thought for long sans so much as surmise.

Seated on the mount of a sandy bank
Under the small bridge, the concrete awning
Supplying shade to piles of fruits for sale,
Quite a contrast made her body so frail
A robust bridge and rotund gourds going,
And she a watchful guard lean as was lank,
Not equal to task but there, sun or shade,
But her eyes were in no such labour laid.

I well remember her school-girlish eyes,
And still recall them—vaguely appealing,
Compelling me to look if just once more,
And talk to her along the way to school,
With not a care to face friendly ridicule;
But that remained a wish on a far shore,
Her pensive eyes remained unrevealing,
Yet, a dream interrupted seldom dies.

For, whenso I dwell on her eyes to deal
Amidst a forest of wooded what if,
The time seems to send in a frozen chill
And there falls eternity's autumn leaf.
Nothing seems to have touched my hardened heart
With so much uneasy trepidation
Dwelling in my raw imagination
That wishes her all well from far apart.

Some subtle memories live life to life,
Identity alone dying with death
That blunts their sharpness like the edge of knife,
But remain with new life right from its breath.
That memories of hers do with me rest,
I bring forth this song from my silent tongue,
But nothing aches today more my sad breast—
That this tryst with time had to die too young!
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Recalling this episode of my schooling age I wonder today what makes me remember it. Nothing at all! She was too young a girl and I was a callow adolescent lad at that time of school. I don't know if she was attractive, all of ten then. It was perhaps her pensive, tender, and searching eyes. Perhaps a thought: while children her age are in school, she was sharing her family burden. Perhaps it was raw curiosity of a young mind.
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Musings | 07.09.08 |