Literary Shelf

Traveller by Jayanta Mahapatra

The poem has been named Traveller, but he says it otherwise while clutching them along and relating to in his own way and reflecting upon so privately and personally the things of life and the world so shrouded in utter mystery, not so easily comprehensible. The trouble and tribulation of the world, how many of us have tried to take to? How many of us the pain and agony of mankind? The struggle and suffering of mankind, how to tell it? Which is what we cannot say it, which is whose and what is whose, none knows it. To read the poem is to be reminded of Hardy and his lines bearing the kernel of ideas, ‘Man is but a puppet into the hands of destiny’, ‘Happiness is but a bubble in man’s life’. Who is the traveller here? How is she? How to say it? What has it happened to her? Is it about the girl of India? Is it about the poor daughter of India? We do not know what has happened to her. Why is the night heavy with her pain and scream? Why does the wind carry it to him?

Each and every evening the bells of the temple close by, rest their easy weight on the bones, it is time to wonder what he will do with what he learns. A warm vapor rises from the darkening earth like a hope. Light and darkness, how do they keep swapping? Time and distance, how to measure it? Where does time travel to?

Somewhere a girl lies it dying into the arms of the mother. How the agony of the mother? How destitute the daughter? What it to say, what to comment upon? Somewhere one lies it avenging the bad life got. He just looks at the people, their way of behaviour. How do they think and behave? However, be his misery, a little bit of that, putting it aside he keeps about seeing around the place. Instead of, a jasmine’s sad and sweet smile he can feel it about. Movement has a purpose. Things remain it not static. They keep on moving. Jasmines’ sweet sadness, how to take to? Jasmines bloom it here and get it wasted as they too have a time. Some scatter it unawares before their sweet fragrance is writ large.

Everything is but a learning, a novel experience. Man learns through experiences. Without undergoing experiences, one cannot say, but metaphysics is something different. Mass and matter remain the same. Just only the way of taking to varies it from man to man, we mean the nomenclature and protocol of taking to.

We do not who the traveller, is it time the traveller, is it man the traveller? How the travel of life and the world? Where has the traveller to go? What is his own? How the things of the world? Who hears whom when one is in pain? Who helps whom when one is in trouble?

When will the bells be tolled again? Where does the evening go to? What thing is the bell made of? How old is it? Who made it when?

Have you seen the jasmines smiling? How their smiles sweet and sad? Only the poet can say it about. Does he see the girl in the jasmine or is thinking about his sweet sadness?

The path of life is not always the same. How will be the times, how to say that? How will be the situations, circumstances and conditions doing the rounds?  

Everything will go on in its natural way. But the one who has to go will go away. An unknown pain is it, whose pain taking to is he wandering here and there?  Whose pain is this? Whose agony it is that the poet is bearing with.

His knowledge and time cannot quieten the night. He cannot fly away like a bird. He wants to wear the weight lightly, but the weight of the unknown buries him, and he is unable to do that.

Every evening
the bells of the temple close by
rest their easy weight on the bones;
it's time again to wonder
what I'll do with what I learn.
A warm vapor rises
from the darkening earth like a hope.
Somewhere, inside a room,
a girl is dying in her mother's arms.
Elsewhere, someone
revenges himself for his broken life.
I look at people. At my little misery.
Beyond, at a jasmine's sad sweet smile.
Movement here has purpose:
It is not cold and tired.
The deer chasing the new growth of grass.
The drum thumping against the sky.
The woman with her knees drawn to her chest.
And the wind that deceives itself
it has tellingly carried the scream of the girl
who is dying in her mother's arms.
My knowledge and my time
fail to quiet to night
unlike the flutter of birds.
I try to wear this weight lightly.
But the weight of the unknown buries me.


More by :  Bijay Kant Dubey

Top | Literary Shelf

Views: 3553      Comments: 0

Name *

Email ID

Comment *
Verification Code*

Can't read? Reload

Please fill the above code for verification.