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)

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