Beyond the Bugyals
We’re not the past that you have known,
Not Bald or Bugyal,
Yet, beautiful, just on our own.
In blades of grass,
Hillside songs and dreams are sown:
And one day, looking back
We too will make you pensive mourn…
On many a day, I walk or bike onto a meadowy hill close to my place. Long swathes of soothing green of the meadows are spiked with a line of Bunya Pines, as a few sheep stroll around. Sometimes towards dusk, you can see the western sky blotting sunset scarlet while a few wild rabbits hop around the shrublands at the bottom of the hill. With these sharp memories, Himalayan dreams of the bugyals float from the past while hopeful wishes of conquest look back from the future. The thoughts are inevitable - yet today, under the shadow of the Bunya pines, I began to wonder that perhaps I am not acknowledging the beauty of the hill itself - emerald and jade-pretty, wrapped with history, and similar to the buttresses of the fig trees scattered here, supporting itself on its own as a meadowy oasis in the middle of urbanisation - it was a wonder in itself. It need not then be compared to the Balds of the rockies, or be contrasted to the Bugyals of the Himalayas - it was, in itself, a greenstone sparkling brilliantly. Perhaps as a token of apology from one artist to its muse, I penned the above lines. Yes, it cannot be compared to alpine meadows, but not every peak need be an Everest. As long as it is a part of nature, isn’t it beautiful on its own…
18th December’21
Comments
Post a Comment