'NEATH THE HILLS / ARATOREM

In the wee hours does he wake daily,               weary and dazed – under woodsmoke haze

To the eerie howls of jackals,                            he strolls

And visits yonder fields of paddy,                     with a sickle in hand – frail and tanned

To reap the crop ‘neath the hills of Maikal.

Enshrined by the cragged silhouettes,              old and somber – by the flicker of ember

Under darkest sky with a tinge of blue,             he feels

His hands hack the wetted spikelets,                cold and thin – cracks on skin

As dawn breaks to clear the hue.

The rustling ears fall to the moist earth,          every grain godsent – on a lifetime spent

And he gathers the golden seeds,                     he prays

This is wealth that for him is worth,                 for the future – of nature and nurture

For it is all his family needs.

His day ends with a mountain of tasks,           countlessly weighted – earnestly devoted

‘Til the Maikal shadows mask                           he hears

As the trees murmur on a full moon night       an old song – distant and forlorn

He closes his eyes by the warm firelight.

Among wild woods and shadowed vales,        forgotten and unheard – lost and blurred

Where the deer and the tiger roam,                   he dreams

Neath’ the hills of Maikal is an untold tale       of the life of yore – the past and before

Of he who calls the wild his home.
--                                                                            --

Today marks the full moon day closest to Autumnal Equinox (September 23, 2019), the beginning of winter. On this day of the harvest moon, I present a poem written twelve years ago – when Maikal hills were Goliath the Grey, and the labours of mankind seemingly peaceful. It was revisited and reshaped to match with the landscape that helped me grow.

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If by chance you have discovered the accompanying stanzas of this poem, you may be able to see the whole picture: the hidden, old, frail, forgotten story of India’s countryside. Aratorem is Latin for cultivator (one-who-cultivates), a farmer.
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