The Savings of Life

 
One misted dawn there came upon me a strange and ghostly dream, and with it marched the worries that delight in breaking houses and scattering hearths,
they love to fold their wings like kites that swoop from the sky and, in a single stroke, carry away both peace and faith.
 
I had told Santoshi long ago—within the hidden corner of the drawer rests the bank’s passbook,
the coins clattering like lost time, the bonds of Kishan Vikas, the yellowed certificates, the little fragments of our earning years.
The certificate of life insurance, I said, shall one day be of use,
when the earth itself is washed like sand by the tide, and the imprisoned soul seeks its release like a shore swallowed by sea.
 
Dreams of terror disquiet man, for to move from one vessel unto another—
whether by crooked means or by honest path—
is alike a peril, for abysses gape on either side,
and before us rise those sharpened peaks, as vultures spread their wings and descend without sound upon the fog.
 
And I had told Santoshi again, that whatever little I shall leave behind,
all that I gathered in the brief span of my years,
was earned in devotion, through the plain virtue of an upright walk.
Somewhere I stumbled, in alleys and crooked lanes,
and somewhere the cunning trades were offered me, yet never claimed by my hand.
What remains is the harvest of truth,
a measure sufficient that a man may carry his head unbent through the daylight,
a measure sufficient that peace may be left behind like a lamp for the next ones who come.
 
And when again the ghostly dream shall rise,
I pray that the next generation, my family,
shall inherit as much of life’s true savings as I have guarded with trembling hands.
And Santoshi, in a voice rain-soaked with foreboding, whispered:
Who shall ever reach the rusted iron trunk? Who shall stretch a hand into that dark corner?
Or shall it topple, and lie forgotten, thick with dust upon the floor?
 
The worry itself is uncertain; yet the will must be found,
the deeds must be carried to the register,
for these are the snares and troubles that fall upon us in the sudden hour of mischance,
and in such times men must be swift and alert, lest all be lost.
 
But beyond these—there are the savings that no banker counts,
the pride that grows from honesty,
the character of the man who walks the narrow alley straight,
the remembrance of days endured without crookedness—
to whom shall I leave these?
Who shall bear the burden first,
and carry in silence what no ledger records?
 
These ancient burdens must be bathed away at the riverside,
and cast like garments upon the waters.
And then, when the ghostly dream returns,
the gods themselves shall appear bodiless,
to carry me from this soil devoured by men,
and with me they shall take only the scriptures,
the words of justice, the song of truth,
and a single vessel filled with dry and sacred ash.