Who Goes There? – Poem on Remembrance

He used to sit at the threshold of his ramshackle hut,

Knees drawn up to the level of his chin.

Ancient was he.

People said that he was as old as the old banyan tree

In the village square.

He sat there, alone, all day long,

Peering around with near sight-less rheumy eyes,

And, at intervals, calling out to passers by

“Who goes there?”

He had been the village chowkidaar in his days

And old habits die hard.

And at times he used to hum

Songs immortalized by Bauls of old.

“He was no mean singer,” old timers said.

When he stood up

His frame was gaunt,

With muscles hanging loose from the wide-boned structure.

“In his days he was a wrestling champ

Who also played the strong man Bheem

In the village Jatra. None had a baritone like him.”

Now he rarely spoke, except when he challenged,

“Who goes there?”

 

He was part of our life,

“Khuro”, we used to call him, ‘Uncle’.

He was our very own.

I could almost see him marching along the village street

At the dead of night

With Bhulo the dog keeping him company,

Calling out, “Who goes there?”

Or, I found him bedecked in a Baul’s garb,

Grabbing an ektara in his right hand,

Dancing as he sang,

“I’ll keep you in my heart…”

Yes, Khuro, I’ll keep you in my heart,

Always.

I saw him again lit up by gas lights,

On centre-stage,

Dazzling in regal splendour, flamboyant with medals on his chest,

With the famous mace on his shoulder,

Challenging his adversary,

“Who goes there?”

I’ll keep you in my heart always…

 

It was on a full moon winter night,

That he stole away.

The moon had risen over the top of the bamboo grove,

Bathing the sleeping village with silvery splashes.

A stray dog had started howling nearby.

Khuro passed away.

They carried him away in silence.

Not even Hari’s name was chanted

Lest he be disturbed.

The moon danced on the ripples of the pond.

The bamboo grove rustled.

Gentle breeze whispered in my ears

“Who goes there?”

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