Greatness

 

The chieftain’s son, Maheshwar

Was extolling his own greatness –

What a boar he had shot,

What a tale had he writ,

What a meat had he cooked

Endless were the tales of his greatness

 

Himmat Singh looked,

Wonder in those empty eyes –

Poverty in whose lives

Gave meaning to the richness

Of the chieftain and his kin

 

And the grandeur continued,

Maheswar went on and on,

Transfixed in that amazement

In those eyes, of wistfulness

For wealth, fame and name

 

‘And you, Himmat?

Don’t you have anything to share?

Is there nothing that you consider

Great or grand or wild

Or even remotely close?’

 

Himmat replied, with only simplicity

In the poverty of his words,

‘I tend to this garden, huzoor,

I tend this and pray for it with all my heart

And the day passes by.’

 

Maheshwar got up slowly,

This was a wasted monologue

With a friend from long ago

‘This garden, that bears

Neither flowers nor fruits

 

‘Is all a tale of emptiness, my friend

Grandness, there a’int any.’

Himmat Singh hung his head in shame

He had nothing to defend

The heartless stab of truthfulness

 

Wasted life, shook Maheshwar

Walking away, laughing

‘Grandess of an empty garden,’

He laughed to himself

Until he stopped and looked again

 

Carefully – at the transparent bugs

Some with ten legs, others eight wings

Some creating rainbows on their shells

Some floating like dandelions

Others drafting constellations with their wings

 

Sunlight seemed to drown but where the sun stopped,

Drapes of molten gold unfurled

And where darkness lurked

Doors to unknown worlds glimmered

In the dying shadows of the land

 

The dewdrops of the morning cold

Had turned to jewels

Strewn careless on the grasses wild

In their stare, sunlight splintered

Casting opals on the woody stems

Unseen wonders lurked

In every branch and twig,

The chieftain’s son witnessed

The miracles tended in an empty garden

As Himmat Singh hung his head in shame…