An Evening in Sanasar

A melancholy evening sinks
into the bowl of Sanasar . . .

Trees of deodar and pine
waft through the chill
of a December evening,
like thousands of needles
piercing the body.

Darkness engulfs
the green meadow
and the government huts
surrounded by the hills
and the village
down below.

A poignant evening descends . . .

Silence and darkness
embrace everything
but the Dak bungalow.
Inside:
laughter and light.
Outside:
deodar and pine
sigh wistfully
like my daughter Seema.

Rasiya, the caretaker,
lights my cigarette first
and then his own.

Like a puppet-show
the play of shadows begins . . .

against the flimsy curtains
at the windows
shadows appear
then vanish.

I see a female head
then speculate about the rest . . .

Vigorously
Rasiya puffs at his cigarette:
“In the dark hours
fairies arrive.
Unseen by most,
they stay through the night.
You are a writer,
why don’t you write about them?”
It’s not just my hands,
my feet are frozen too.
Rubbing my arms, shoulders,
chilled to the bone,
I nod vaguely.

Puffing deep at his cigarette
Rasiya says again:

“To enjoy this divine landscape
only the adventurous few
come here in summer.
Or the fakirs
in winter.
Or sometimes
a filthy rich merchant . . .

Today’s visitor is a minister.
He will organize a job
for our son, Hunsoo . . .”

AN EVENING IN SANASAR