Bored being confined by four walls,
I set out for Santalpara
Where I hear rustics sit idle whole day
And drink, brawl and do nothing.
A fine drizzle washed the forest path a while ago,
And yonder the fairy trees all stand naked
And sacred. I wish to be hugged
But no rays enter there, no path laid.
Forest I cross, and come to Santalpara,
But where are the Santal peasants?
Heaps of tourists’ waste—plastic bottles, beer cans, dotted condoms,
And painted, flashy faces, and civilized prattle.
Ten minutes stay I there, and convulsed,
And again come to the forest path
And again a fine drizzle showers me,
And heals my pestering wounds.
(First published in anthology, Rise to Higher Essence)