The Road of Return

It was always known—
he would return by this road,
some other day,
for there is no other road
to return upon.
 
Dasharath walked that way,
past the familiar tea-stall of Madhur,
turning left into the lane
that led to Mamon’s house.
 
Upon his shoulder rested a sack of rice,
saved from the month’s expenses,
so little—
yet perhaps of use
if Mamon should be in need.
 
Before her house lay the yellow field.
This year the harvest had failed to prosper—
the rain was erratic,
and the farmer’s fate,
more severe than ever.
 
At the edge of that field
fear seized him—
the market of buying and selling,
creditors, brokers, spies,
all sat waiting,
ready to seize what was not theirs.
 
With fear he passed,
beneath the burning sun;
his skin was scorched,
yet in his skeletal frame
the courage of the heart endured.
 
So much had been declared—
that everything would change
when the government of equality arrived.
But nothing had changed,
and nothing ever would.
 
Yet much would change,
as it must—
the plough cutting the earth’s breast,
the farmer’s scattered spirit
losing itself again and again,
while bandits and tricksters
filled the land,
and even promises turned into threats.
 
Quietly Dasharath mounted the veranda of Mamon,
and called.
Two children came dancing out, naked,
with their swollen bellies,
laughing in delight.
 
The sack of rice
felt shame to behold them.
Dasharath knew—
today’s saving will vanish tomorrow,
the bright light of eyes
will fade into shadow.
 
Friend and foe alike
all understand.
It was always known.
Yet illusion lingers in the mind,
and the grieving chest knows—
what more awaits,
after this?
 
Dasharath walked on by the fields,
his ancient face
long extinguished.
From the tea-stall,
those who sat watching
saw another light
go out.
 
It was always known—
he would return by this road,
some other day.
For there is no other road
to return upon.