(I take fantasy flights to the higher world of planets and stars
and the lower world of bacteria in the virtual reality of print and electronic media,
and return, now and then, to Mother Earth and ask her,
to Give me a fistful grains of sanity for my survival.)
My Earth begins here
From the soil below my feet
Wherever when I’m there.
Up ‘n up the vision ascending
Round ‘n round horizons holding
High ‘n high on Himalayas’ cliff.
Here, the ego of rumbling cliff ocean
Dissolve, evaporate now and then
Vanish in the soil, in the air.
Enough is the warmth in heart
To embrace new horizons;
Expands my selfhood now and then.
Sound bond with the soil holds
Whole Earth in a quarter of a ‘roti’;
Recognition retained in a square foot
Soil below my feet.
(Translation from the original in Marathi by the author)
1. ‘Fistful of grain’: In my native village until fifty years ago there were no beggars.
Only the mendicants, ascetics, sadhus came to the households asking for alms.
They were offered at least a fistful of grains, not coins.
There was not much of currency. Now there are rich as well as poor beggars everywhere.
2. ‘Roti’: is Indian flat bread baked on burnt clay or iron plate, usually concave in shape.