These strange mountains

Bishu cast a quick look over the pond

And the water gathered all its ripples,

Collapsing like a poet’s metaphors

Into some calm of thought. A sound echoed

Throughout the valley, and disappeared

In its green. When it was sinfully dark

An ewe fell a prey to the red wolf’s guile

And a magic moon laughed ’neath the dumbness

That sleeps like eternity’s unconcern.

Yet Bishu saw rising at the far shore

An image that grew sharper with each wave

As it vanished; the boundaries of time

Withdrew and a sudden insight broke out

In a triumph. Soon as that swift presence

Approached closer, unhesitant contours

Of things to come acquired distinctness.

In tranquil heart the rapt voice of Nishţhā

Spoke to him: “You have seen these strange mountains

And moved amid men urged by a greatness

That descends in unexpected moments,

When history is surprised by a force

Of irresistible destiny, when

You have climbed the ascending slopes and reached

In a rapid mood utter godlessness.

What is, is non-existence and beyond

You begin to assert the breathing fire

Which sustains even that. The spirit gave

To these aspiring hills a hope that waits

In the bosom of the world. A chant joined

In the praises of Prajnā. Sing ever,

O Bishu, while bathing, sleeping, eating,

Or when you go from village to village

Speaking the language of the firmament

That bears her beauty and wonder, her love,

Sing of the mistress of being, giver

Of boons. Live in the woman’s completeness.”

RY Deshpande

13 July 2004