An Aching Urge

By Jayanta Biswas

Darkness darkens further

deepens the bleak hope

into pathos of helpless pleading

for a handful of rice and

a bowl of water

that is transparent and fluid:

not depending much

on the arrangements

made by "them"

or surrendering

to their confinement,

tirelessly treading the longest path

to come to occupy

a patch of grass to lie back on,

to look up

in the semi-dark sky

studded with sparkling stars

and passive halo of the sun

or the novel pink gold moon.

The uncertainty of living

like the superimposed mess

of infinite quantum states

or the mere existence

like the "Schrodinger's cat"

both alive and dead--

until "they" go near them

and take a close look at--

remains a mystery

as it is in the very nature

of existence itself.

The ethereal existence

of all those on the perimetre

outside

on the circumference

or even beyond

like the rank and file

of lowly refugees

and many like them;

miles away from home

alone

or with all of them

three or five

with a dipping hope

when they can come safely back

home

in the vicinity of neighbours

and the known faces of the "others"

and that of the silent bricks or mud

rigidly holding the walls

of semi-forgotten dwellings

silently building a secret bond:

or some other "things"--

the greener trees

with happier branches

and twigs and sprigs

laden with thicker leaves

and the gay birds

under the copious blue

and squeamish fear

of an unearthly kind.

An aching urge curls up

coils up inside;

the urge to meet

and sit back

and talk for hours on

and hold and hug

and love:

love abundantly,

most meaningfully

being a friend

or a mentor,

a well wisher

or even better

being the very beings

that they are

or have been like

all these days

unseen or unheard of

or even when seen or heard

being simply ignored

or disregarded and

filtered

not allowing their entry

into our own sphere.

And now you realise oneness

with empathy and love

and a strange connection

borne out of distressing doom --

courtesy to a deadly virus --

of an immense magnitude

and a dimension

unthought of

which questions the very existence

of civilisation's pace

or the whole human race

or an individual--

a pauper or a king,

the Pope or a priest,

a princess or a Queen,--

with no definite knowledge

if the very next moment

or the very next contact--

the inevitable one--

can bring his ruin

or can fix his fate

in the pathways of space and time

secretly woven up

in the horizon beyond us.

Yet, you cannot change that;

the forward motion of time

and the chain reactions

through that tunnel:

you wish you could control that.

But you cannot

nor even the world's lords.

That even your days

can be numbered

like the many

in the "upper" or

the "lower" echelons

perhaps, it's better

to listen to your heart

and do all that

amidst all precautions

that brings peace and calm

and satiates composed soul

to approach others

through the mind

and the heart

in the realm where

we all unite once.

By Jayanta Biswas