By Sudipta Chatterjee
One of life’s tiny crayons,
He stood under the rainbow
Lost in the lush mango groves of his home
In the curled up fishing village
Bonpukuria, at the back of beyond.
The green mangoes were his own
The light in the leaves, the roots going down
Down into the verdant past
When his father was all alive
And he got to sit on his shoulders
And smell the sun in his hair.
Kapil was fond of gardens,
What with fragments of clouds in his eye
And the flora he nurtured within.
After the boats took away his father
For the last time, into the heart of river Ganga
Kapil resolved to grow a garden in the vacant space within
A little patch of marigolds,
Tuberoses, sunflowers turning to the sky.
But shades of grey interfered with his colours
In spite of all the weeding and watering,
For the boats kept coming back
As Kapil’s mother grew pumpkins, ridge-gourds
On their thatched cottage roof,
Kapil attended to the cattle,
His cheeks fragrant
From fruits he plucked for his mother’s pickles.
At times, he went around
Vending fresh milk and home-made curd
Vending dreams and carrying his colours
Towards the next watercolour sunrise.
As shades of grey
Kept interfering with him,
Little Kapil tended to his garden.