On a Stony Grass-Covered Hillside

On a stony grass-covered hillside, sitting next to me, is Topsy.

She is panting and has the spaniel’s alertness.

In my lap is an open sketchbook, in it a drawing

made half-heartedly. 

The white page dazzles in the sun.

Around me, intensely green, are trees, a few of them young.

In the blue rain-washed sky, like scattered balls of uncarded cotton,

radiant monsoon clouds.

Sometimes, the soft echoes of the wind, clean, sweet—

and the creaking murmur of dhak trees. Behind them

                                                                                 —a railway station. 

The hiss of the locomotive. Ghaghad! Ghaghad! Then a long, steamy exhalation

—there was only the faint sighing of the wind otherwise.

Soft, loud, once or twice shrill—a whistle. It comes from

                                                                                 the shunting yard.

Topsy is on high alert. There are conspiracies afoot in the wind.

Below, in the distance, what looks to be a garden,

a large indistinct patch of green

                                               and countless rooftops, some 

                                               gleaming in the sun—the city of Jabalpur,

its green lawns, here and there the green compounds of houses.

And near us a digging—red and black stones heaped up 

... a screech—what bird was it?

                               Again? Again?

Close by, a glass house. Somewhere are children playing or squabbling. 

Files of women laborers, each woman carrying a headload of red murrum.

The slow breathing of a locomotive as it approaches—

the breathing gets rapid, shallow. Then comes to a sudden stop. But no—

                                          and without any warning—a long whistle. 

On the incline, the slant of the hot sun.