The boat song- by srishti bANERJEE
As the sun dives deep into the lake,
Bijju rests his oars.
He draws his eyes in kohl and masks his face in vegetable dye that resemble hues of the sunset.
He is the storyteller of our past, portraying the regal kings for a pittance, at the local resort.
He is our boatman, perfectly juxtaposed between the past and the future.
The lilting tunes of his boat song must have reached the invader’s ears long ago;
For on melancholic days like this; with smoke billowing from his hand rolled cigarettes,
he rues of when the primal laws were being written, of the kingdoms lost, of women as sexual prey, of the Portuguese and the French, of wars and men, of prayer books and wealth changing hands in the dark.
His mellifluous voice embraces the horizon, the words reflecting agony and hope.
He is out in his snake boat, at the crack of dawn, catching karimeen for lunch.
Just as his boat, glides across the glass surface of the lake, disturbing the calm waters, Bijju’s passage into the future, creates a ruckus not enough to cause ripples.
He is no gladiator on a chariot, just a muscular version of R.K. Laxman’s common man.
Soon the sky Gods above herald the rains, he rushes to help Amma deliver pickles ordered on the internet.
As we mark our place in the world map with great gusto, he is insular, choosing to remain hidden among the foliage.
Yet amidst all of this lies his boat song, epiphany to some and gibberish to others.
In a way India is him and he is India.
Bijju rests his oars.
He draws his eyes in kohl and masks his face in vegetable dye that resemble hues of the sunset.
He is the storyteller of our past, portraying the regal kings for a pittance, at the local resort.
He is our boatman, perfectly juxtaposed between the past and the future.
The lilting tunes of his boat song must have reached the invader’s ears long ago;
For on melancholic days like this; with smoke billowing from his hand rolled cigarettes,
he rues of when the primal laws were being written, of the kingdoms lost, of women as sexual prey, of the Portuguese and the French, of wars and men, of prayer books and wealth changing hands in the dark.
His mellifluous voice embraces the horizon, the words reflecting agony and hope.
He is out in his snake boat, at the crack of dawn, catching karimeen for lunch.
Just as his boat, glides across the glass surface of the lake, disturbing the calm waters, Bijju’s passage into the future, creates a ruckus not enough to cause ripples.
He is no gladiator on a chariot, just a muscular version of R.K. Laxman’s common man.
Soon the sky Gods above herald the rains, he rushes to help Amma deliver pickles ordered on the internet.
As we mark our place in the world map with great gusto, he is insular, choosing to remain hidden among the foliage.
Yet amidst all of this lies his boat song, epiphany to some and gibberish to others.
In a way India is him and he is India.