If It Rains: If It Rains Not
-Raja Puniani
‘Quaff
the poison received as reward, if you can.’
‘Walk with a smile trampling upon your own
smile-less bosom, if you can.’
‘Trudge on with a moonlit compromise on the
pitch dark face of destiny, if you can.’
‘Lock up and leave your prowess inside the
house, if you can.’
‘Drag along silently the entire sky that falls
on you, if you can.’
‘Forgive the one that never forgives you, if
you can.’
‘Be dumb and tolerate and only tolerate, if you
can.’
…I suffocate! I am dizzy! I am nauseous!
My veins pulsate almost exploding. Here, look
at this…
Merely thinking of this.
And, tell me why this shouldn’t happen. For us
one bottle of
Kerosene is more worthwhile than the ‘Vision’.
After all
A layman talks of ordinariness.
How splendid a saint seems in the ornament of
tolerance. Wow!
Glittering armament of forgiveness! Fluttering
ensign of fearlessness!
Worthless we – unable to wage a war of victory
over our wandering senses.
‘Talk not, tolerate, forgive.’- This statement is Sanskrit
to us.
The matter is crystal clear- see here! In the
interminable lanes of history
This object called ‘Human’ is but a blade of
grass.
Even sky is weary of carrying loads of
heaviness.
Unwarranted, unlimited- it may rain. It may not
today.
When it rains- we fear landslides. We fear
floods. We fear fears.
If it rains not- we fear drought. We fear
famine. We fear fears.
Whether we fear or not, it definitely will
rain. Or it won’t.
If it can, it will rain.
He will talk- after all he is man.
Not solely lump of soil, salt and sweat is he!
It suffices not that he has hunger, thirst,
tears, joy, work…
He craves for a sterling life too.
“Well don’t mind.”
It’s not so easy to penetrate into the chapters
of the mind.
The mind is the sky. Bit by bit clouds
accumulate.
Regardless of whether the birds of dreams fly
or not.
Listen! The mind is the sky. The cosmos of the
cosmos.
And so if it rains, we shall talk about the
rain, our homes,
Pain and pleasure, and our resentment. Love and
envy too.
Come on! In the celebrations this time, let the
soul sing a rock ‘n roll.
The picturesque paintings of consciousness be
hung majestically in
The art exhibition. Let trees play football-sun
on the slushy soils.
(Ole… Goal!) Let tune lose consciousness
bewitched by
The dance of crops wairing serenity.
If it rains, in haste we will pick our clothes
and sun-dried grains.
We will shelter our fouls.
Let our footwear rest under our beds
throughout.
The sky may rejoice when children play games
outwitting life and death
On rainbow roads raked by the horizon.
As it rains, the cascading waters may have to
listen to the dusting of things.
Scenic sights of sounds.
It will rain on the palms, the empty palms of
earth.
Washing away the hollowness. Rinsing the silts
of solitude.
Without the teacher’s permission, students will
be soaked wet even
With their umbrellas. Drenched will be their
innocent now.
Just wait till it rains. We will push out the
sick seeds of abundance
And watch them getting wet from head to heel.
The fairy song mushrooms will spring up on the
spine of time.
Tribal children of yonder village chattering
gaily well come
To harvest these mushrooms next dawn.
Eyes turned inwards- hardened heart.
The law on one hand, the whip on the other.
If it rains not, some faithful illusion will be
Charioteer to Arjun
Carrying him in the chariot of clouds- there
where villages, cities,
Nations and market squares will transform into Kurukshetras.
Disfigured milestones with peeling numbers
stretch their hands like
beggars
At the roadside where countless lonely cars are
caught in a jam.
But if it rains, leaves will rehearse their
wetness in the musical notes
Of a new opera.
Even stones will be drenched- never mind even
it’s just from outside
They have never tasted wetness before.
If it rains not, the rain will have to wait
chewing on the seeds of hope
That germinated in the last rains.
In his own period of history, people has waited
For long periods of time. (Say not that people
cannot wait-
The bird drags to the nest and waits for dawn).
If it rains not- mothers will for their sons
weave stories of rainfall.
If it rains not- the streets where Ashok,
the conqueror returned
Victorious as Ashok, the Great
from Kalinga will return
Of thirst back to Kalinga. Again. Back
to Kalinga.
Parched voices born in throat. Squeezed out dry
sounds.
Withered pale looks. All these drenched will be
Dead banks of rivers may resurrect gurgling the
genesis of flow.
But if it rains not- then let our expectations
be like the rain
Falling over our infernal hamlets of hope.
The ordinary talker, the mundane life-bearer,
the plain man
May say- “We cannot wait. Why wait for one
who never turns up?”
But looking intensely at the quiet sky, he must
to himself say-
“We have to wait. Not for the sake of waiting.
Waiting while
Not wanting to wait for those that never
waited.”
That’s alright- let not the lips of our eyes
shut up.
It’s enough that the lashes of our ears are
wide open.
We have to wait like one who waits for the
waiting.
See – it is so easy!
Like the desolate home that waits for a distant
letter.
Like this tree whose last leaf falls and it
watches and waits
For the spring to sprout in the tender leaves
of the other tree.
Like the travellers on this bank waiting for
the boat
That has crossed over to the other bank like a
hero
To return empty again.
The first flower in the bough. The first thorn.
Waits for the first
Of some last revolution. The final war. The
ultimate wound.
The matter is crystal clear. Like radiant
reality.
If it rains- the rivers will rise. The sands
will surge.
Drenched will be the pathways. Throughout the
cosmos.
The pathways
Wherefrom till yesterday demons in disguise of
personal dieties
Deluding themselves as our destiny
Circumambulated ceremonial fires lit of our
lives
Consummating our tomorrows.
The pathways
Wherefrom the pathways spread their hoods
And slither with hisses to embed their poison
fangs
On the Orion of pathways.
The pathways
Wherefrom faceless we- will be trudging on-
And may be trudging back will be our own alien
faces.
Oh yes!
Before the rains, the sky may be delirious.
It may vomit lightning streaks. It is alright
if it rains.
It is alright even if it rains not. It will be
waited for.
The one that has been waiting will wait still
But tolerate – he will not – even the time
That he has been tolerating.
Now on. Now onward.
(Originally written in Nepali.
Translation
- Shradha Mani Pradhan, Darjeeling)
