THE PIGEONS’ RETURN
Dr. B. GOPALA REDDY
The mango-grove is in smiles aflower,
Its joy swelling out in fruitlets taking shape.
The summer heat has not yet begun,
And its trumpet-sounds are heard
Near the seasoned grove of spring.
It was past noon that day when I called at her house.
It was after an interval fairly long.
I accosted her:
“Here have I brought you a present strange
What you cannot guess and what you do not expect”.
Her curiosity was aflush.
And she looked at me with questioning eyes.
I replied:
“Don’t you be baffled.
It is the pouch of your own letters
Written to me with soothing sweetness
Ranging over several months and years too.
Not in a huff are they brought back,
Nor in displeasure or discard.
They are letters, dripping ecstasy
Wafting a perfume of friendly well-being,
Letters which I have read and re-read with joy,
Which I have stored as a precious treasure,
Which I possessed and owned as mine.
To my progeny they are naught,
Of no value to them at all.
They will not sense
The proximity, affection, and joy inhered therein.
The one who received and the one who wrote
They two know the invaluable worth thereof.
The pigeons you despatched
Have returned to your house at long last.
Like the musical-note in ascent
Making a side-jump and landing on the Pallavi.
Cherished in your bosom
Nourished with affection
Blossoming anti bursting with perfume
The flower-garlands their freshness ebbing with time
Are back in your lap to rest asleep.
Born in friendship
Wafting perfumes of entwining thoughts
Not losing their values
But redoubled in original worth
Have the pigeons returned.
They need a refuge, a sanctuary.
Our association was marked
By earnestness and accord and mutual regard.
On the hill-tops of honour have we moved
The white clouds of our affectionate regard
Were not dyed red with erotic passion.
The horizon of our minds was full
With the white light of friendship unsullied.
The pure elemental identity
Nourished our friendship.
Association of man and woman
Has been narrowed by a sexy touch in our society.
Social outlook has narrowed the bounds of that felicity.
The branches of our friendship had never a downward descent
You are not my sister,
Nor my beloved.
Affection untouched by selfishness
Has brought us close together.
Lower desires there were none in our minds.
Domineering thoughts never took shape
Between us nothing to give, nothing to receive
Except the perfume of two minds aflower
The pleasing note of your letters
Was echoed by my mind.
I waited for the advent of your letters
Like the toiling peasant in drought for the advent of rain.
Your letters again and again I read in leisurely mood
Pausing and pausing and mind meandering
The garden of my mind was swayed
With the happy breeze of perfumed thoughts.
It was like the sweet sound of a flute from afar
It was like the call of Venus reflected
In the shining waters of a stream at dawn,
Pleasantries we exchanged.
Small triumphs and smaller defeats we gladly acknowledged
We never used words rash or harsh, hot or sharp.
We were never insistent.
Concealed praise there may have been.
Our hosting was full of sweets and savoury marginal.
Our darts were not tart and turned out to be flowers.
The creepers of our letters spread
Within the bounds of the garden of letters,
From the theme of rural merriment
To the classic legend of Radha in love
There was coverage in our letters.
Personal experiences and description
Of delightful scenes surveyed
Took on the sandal paste of ineffable joy.
There was jingle of poetic ornament.
There was the nectar of uncomprehended emotion.
Our letters constitute a chapter of Rasa
In the Kavya of our life,
Like the Sundara segment in the Ramayana epic
With no prologue and no epilogue.
I do not think I received letters from any other
So many nor so vivacious
Nor so full of emotion in language soft and sweet,
The years of our acquaintance may be few.
But the swing of our affection was great.
On the waves of sweetness, not cloying.
Your silent face asks the question.
“Why then are you returning these letters”.
In the lake-waters of the heart
Swings this question like a lotus-bud.
Harken to my reply with sympathy and understanding
You are far younger than I.
When, leaving the earthly-nest, this bird has gone
Aloft to the unknown vacant skies at the beckoning of stars
And the age gap is filled to your outliving years,
You may lay your bands on one of these letters
And read it a while
And recalled to your mind this close friend who is begone.
If any little shred of perfume still abides
Out of the plenty that filled the heart at one time,
You may hear as in a whisper
The anklet-jingle of a bygone past.
I know bow wonderful is time,
How savage and how merciless.
It wipes out all images good and bad
It heals the painful wounds of sorrow.
The flowers of joy it withers.
It swamps out the heat of day
And blows out the lamps of joy.
If time had not the healing power
What would have become of mankind?
In the flames of sorrow, it would surely have perished
When a man falls to the ground
It is time that removes the dust and makes him rise again.
Time’s merciful hand does what a thousand heavenly physicians may do.
It is time that kills.
It is time that keeps us alive.
Time is our protective armour.
In days to come
In some leisure hour,
If in the garden of memory, any saplings of friendship remains
Peruse a letter or two
Whether on a summer-eve
Or a cloud-lad den rainy day
Or an autumnal night
Read a letter or two.
See if old memories can stir you and wake you up.
If that power is gone
Then push away this pouch
Throwaway the letters
Tear them and burn them
Throw the whole heap into the Bhogi-fiames
What are these letters to others but a waste heap.
Lifeless paper and dried up ink.
I give back your letters unto you.
With Ganga water, Ganga worship I perform.
Keep them for a time with forbearance.
May God bless you.
So saying, I rose.
A tear-drop fell on the pouch of letters.
With a heavy heart
And a light band
I moved out of her house in the afternoon sun.
At the gate the mango-blossom fell on me shedding its flower-dust.