Thieves not Warroirs

Some call them thieves,

Who under a mask of green,

Stalked their foe, 

On the hill side serene.

Upon a hill side,

Wait the warriors of old,

They wait for the path, 

Of the rich to unfold.

Disguised as shrubs,

Covered in leaves.

Hidden from the eyes,

Of even the sharpest of thieves.

For thieves they were,

Thieves of souls,

They wait for the rich,

Fearless and bold.

Arms at the ready,

Forever constant they are,

To kill another,

With poison dart.

They waited for days
Devoid of fear,

Finally through the rain clatter,

Tall footsteps they hear.

A rich man dressed in purple.

With a golden staff they see,

"Plenty of riches,

Plenty of gold for me!"

Harmless they assumed,

A sorcerer to be.

Their assault on him,

Was a mistake indeed.

An immortal wizard he was,

A wizard of the realm.

Bearded and wise,

Now angered by them.

Waving his staff,

He cursed them to lay,

Rooted to the ground,

Forever, everyday.

He cursed them to stay,

Waiting for the end,

The great old wizard,

"Master of the Realm".

He shouted, "An out rage this is,

But I will return.

Until then,

In the sun you all shall burn."

So each day and night,

In silence they cried,

As people oblivious,

Pass them by.

Upon the mountain side,

Forever  they wait,

To meet an unapproachable,

An ever distant fate.

Not being able to knock,

On neither heaven nor hell's gate.

To be fed upon,

By the cattle herd,

To provide nesting,

For a free bird.

The mountain breeze,

Combs through their leaves,

Upon their flowers will feast,

Swarms of bees.

Their families have forgotten,

They will out last,

The present, the future,

And the past.

Their seeds fall down,

And their pain will multiply,

To be lost and forgotten,

As the centuries pass by.

Many years later,

The sorcerer returned,

To greet the shrubs,

His respect they had earned.

By now their bodies will have withered,

To only their souls, peace delivered.

With a wave of his staff, they were now set free,

Heavenward they walk, onward they journey.

In debt they were, for a mistake,

Never to a sorcerer, thy dart point hate.

In the ground rooted the shrubs remain,

To face the sun, wind and the rain.

They tell of a story of the thieves of old,

Who waited long, for their path to unfold.

The Boy who Wouldn't Pray for Rain

Long summer passed along,

the earth dry in every way.

Finally arrived, that beautiful day,

When all the skies turn a deep dark grey.

Black clouds, fragrant earth the thunder clap and all,

But the adamant rain for weeks didn't fall.

"I will not let it rain" in anger said God,

"But why?" asked Gabriel among the angels,

So He replied to them all,

"The boy prayed every year for the rainfall,

so I would send a watery wall mighty and tall,

He would yell to the sky, 'is that all?'

So a mighty storm I would send to quench his angry call.

It makes me sad as he no more believes,

That I control the fire, the earth, the water and trees,

That I have power over the perennial breeze, 

That I can make him squeal if I so choose,

He doesn't pray any more because he thinks it of no use."

"How happy was I to fuel his madness for the rain,

The lightning, and thunder crack caused his eyes and ears no pain.

How he loved when the land, over grew like the beard of a sage,

He would walk with the ants, the buffalo among the tall grass blades.

He now sulks because his monsoon escape is no more,

Gone are the blanket tents, the warmth of the fire wood stove."

"The biggest mistake I made was not that I gave him free will to think,

It was placing his soul among the concrete, no streams, no trees, no Kalu the dog, no lake, no stony road, no clean air and no tall grass in which to sink."

"So finally this one last day I'll let it infinitely pour,

And with all my love I want him to know,

That come the monsoon next year I will let it mercilessly rain,

I promise to shower him with all of my pain.

The pain that he caused me because he seized to believe,

That I am in every drop of water and in all the air that he breathes."

Goa Diaries (April 2014)- LeMartine

The people I love all tell me such grand stories of their childhood days in the villages of Goa. Once they leave this place, there will be no one to pass on  stories of swimming in the crystal clear water of the creeks along the river Sal, or walking across the endless stretches of fields and sand dunes that led to the beaches of Salsette. 
‘I’ll tell you one thing’, said Lamartine expressing his grief. ‘Goa is not the same as it used to be when I was a boy.’

Lamartine or ‘Lamy’ as his loved ones affectionately called him had the most classic of walrus mustaches and a welcoming smile that said,‘You remind me of myself as a young man’. His accent was an amalgam of a Goan Catholic and a person who speaks a rustic Mediterranean language. 
He was the kind soul that provided me with inexpensive accommodation for the first sabbatical of my professional life. He was an entrepreneur. 
We were in Cavelossim- a quiet village that my mother’s family hails from.

We were driving down the village road in an old jeep that he had restored with his two sons. The jeep, more of a nuisance than a transportation for people, was covered in a thick layer of navy blue oil paint that did a fair job of hiding the evidence of its experiences on the winding roads of Goa. The dashboard had a sticker that said, ‘You don’t mess with Texas’-If Texas was the jeep’s name,it’s not a coincidence that I was nearly thrown off its doorless side on a sharp turn and developed several convex swellings on the top of my head after every careless pass over a speed breaker or pothole. 
Its powerful engine had a characteristic truck-like obnoxious roar that was familiar to the vados of Cavelossim and its lazy local folk. As we drove past the old houses and mysterious taverns I noticed on several locals approaching the moving jeep to greet Lamy. They would wave and bare grateful smiles on their faces. Lamy would promptly respond by honking the shiny brass trumpet horn retrofitted on the right side of the windshield frame. I didn’t ask him, but I knew that their smiles reflected their gratitude to him for some simple kindness he had showed them.

Lamy was taking me to a plot that he owned on the sand dunes that fringed the Cavelossim beach. The dunes are a mysterious place narrow strip of land that runs between the beaches and the main town. I remember the army of short mounds laced with with narrow tar footpaths that Lamy’s jeep navigated with characteristic caution. 
Among them were idyllic white sand football pitches dusted with dried up pine needles and eucalyptus leaves- a football lover’s paradise. Along the side of the  footpaths were a few scattered houses where deeply tanned Goan ladies sat with an alert eye on the fish laid to dry. They also kept a close eye on their children who wrestled playfully in the sand. Some youngsters sat on park bench placed by the tall community crucifix-the base of which was covered in a thick layer of wax and crooked half melted candles. 
Scattered among the mounds and football pitches were healthy green groves of mango,cashew, eucalyptus, coconut and sea side pine trees.I found it intriguing how they somehow found firm root in the sandy earth there. 
In the middle of it all I saw a concrete boundary wall with iron fences and gates surrounding two newly built houses. They were colored an odd bright blue and green paint and bore a poor taste in western architecture. They stood out unpleasantly among the hills of sand. Their freshly watered gardens spreading the characteristic pleasant fragrance of the onset of the monsoon did not justify their presence among the Dunes. They stood out unpleasantly among the hills of sand, like a fish out of water.
We reached the plot of land that he recently purchased after a long game of tug-of-war with the Department of Agriculture. We met with the family who tended to Lamy’s land-a farmer, his wife and a little boy who took a liking to my watch. The farmer whose name I cant remember was from the coastal region of Karwar bordering the south of Goa. Although seemingly toughened by his occupation, he looked at and spoke to Lamy with an intensity of gratitude and respect. Lamy handed them a parcel of food that his wife had prepared for them. 

No meeting in Goa is complete without chilled lager and a plate of succulent chili garlic prawns. So after our short visit to the dunes of Cavelossim we paid a local tavern a lunch visit. While a pleasant afternoon breeze dried our perspiring necks and brows, the beer filled mugs made a game of football on the TV more entertaining. We cheered for unknown teams with a group of hungry, tipsy, Russian tourists. 
The crunch of the prawns and french-fries stimulated a conversation, themed on love for family and friends, mistakes and his career as a chief chef on huge cargo ships. However hard I tried, the topic of food and my love for cooking didn’t seem to do much for him. I noticed his interest waning as he ate the mixed fried rice we ordered. 
In my search for a new friend and a person to look up to, I was struggling to find the one thing that could make him see me as family. At one point I remember mentioning my love for the guitar playing and music. That proved to be the moment where he appreciated my exploitation of his hospitality. It was as though his beer-induced drowsiness had been forgotten. He ordered another round of food and drink and we talked about common tastes in Country and Raggae music. We talked about and sang songs by Jim reeves, Elvis Presley, and Bob Marley. Just before we were about to cross the limits unsafe for driving back to Villa Anna Maria, we departed from the tavern singing away to ‘No woman, no cry’. 
When we returned to his grand residence, he asked me to wait on the spacious porch saying he had an important errand to run. In the moments he was away, I found comfort in the arms of an antique easy chair. Just as I was about to succumb to the charms of early evening laziness, Lamy returned with his prize possession-a guitar. Along with it a smile from ear to ear. ‘No need for coffee’ I said to myself as we jammed away to his favorite Ragae numbers by the Rastafarian King. We talked about stories of Marley’s life and the bottles of whiskey Lamy exhausted the day he found out that Marley passed away. 
Leaving his guitar with me (solely for my stay at his residence) he cheerfully departed to meet his wife for dinner in Madgaon.

Determined to make the best of the day, I strolled back to the dunes and found my way to an isolated opening among some coconut and cashew trees I paused for a moment to take in the beauty of my success in achieving solace in a place rarely trampled upon by wayward tourists. I followed the sounds of lashing waves and reached the beach at sundown. As I walked northwards on the shore I picked up interesting looking shells with which to gift to a friend and mangrove saplings to plant back in the depleted groves of Bombay.