a poem by Tanushree Nair

This ancient city waits for monsoon,
with bated breath, thwarted often;
Now the sky is kinder, clouds warmer
Varuna bounteous in his dispensation.

Rain is ever a messenger of hope
And in fury, grounds all hopes to dust;
Varuna knows living matters more to Man
than life, and never lets him adrift.

He does it with a cynical smile
stifling an age-old query in his breast;
How the self-anointed master of his fate
ends up a serf of his own mammoth conceit?

Man of technology left heartless in the race,
Man of ‘culture’ too myopic for company,
Man of religion losing his voice in the mists,
Man of history tied to the wheel, per se.

Geniuses of yore wished to share, not excel
Voices rising above rattle of the juggernaut
Life meant more to them than living,
Now the juggernaut rolls, voices in a knot.

I have my task cut out, says Varuna
Wait for harvest, says he in wily mirth;
Never bask in glory or rue anonymity
for the juggernaut rides on its own faith.

P.S. : A word about Varuna.
Varuna is Rain God in Hindu mythology and
much-propitiated messenger of hope and harvest.