Latest Post, Poetry

From Mulberry Seeds

In a village nestled with memories deep,
 Where two-room sets and a porch did keep,
 A weighing scale, old, and strong,
 Rusty yet rugged, a place to belong.
 At eight years old, it stood my height,
 With iron bolts and hooks so tight,
 We’d sit and weigh ourselves with glee, As laughter danced in the air so free.
 But beyond the porch, a well did echoed, Its depths unknown, where no light bowed,
 Peering down its abyss, fear intertwined,
Bind with images, a shiver in the mind
 In the room of carved door,
With one cot and bulb to explore
 A tale so thick and bare,
 Through whispered stories, a bond we share.
 But before his tale, let’s talk of the tree, The white mulberry, a sight to see,
 Planted by his hands, a gift to the land, A symbol of life, nature’s gentle hand.
 Dried leaves down from branches grey, Danced and fluttered, in a month of May,
 They whispered secrets with every breeze,
 The mother of nature, a gift to seize.
 And oh, the mulberry fruits so sweet,
 Soft and juicy, a mellow treat,
 Each visit to that place, a craving more intense,
 For the taste of those mulberries, white and green much dense.
 But why just one mulberry tree in sight?
 When wood apple trees stood tall and so high, Forming a wall around the crops of song,
Their delicious fruits I tasted after so long.
 I recall a playful day with cousins dear,
 Around the trees, laughter filled the air, High up in a branch, a crow’s nest lay, Guarding tiny eggs, a crow’s display.
 But oh, the crows, they deemed us a threat,
 With claws and beaks, they made us fret,
 Poking our heads, pulling hair with might, A comical scene turned tearful in sight.
 We sought solace in the arms of our mother,
 Tears streaming, we cried out to mother,
 The crows, a temporary menace, it seemed,
 A tale to remember, a childhood with curious seed .
 Now, I am enchanted to narrate the tale,
Of my great grandfather’s birth, a story that’ll never pale.
It was whispered through generations, and so dear,
A tale of hope, and love so clear.
 In a time long ago, a mother’s heartache did dwell, For her children, born but not long to dwell.
A curse it seemed, haunting her days and nights,
As her little ones slipped away like ethereal lights,
But then, a wise saint appeared, bringing hope anew, He shared two tasks that would guide them through.
 The first was for his mother, a change in her meals,
 She would eat from a mortar, as a vow she would seal. For twelve long years, she ate in that humble way, With faith in her heart, day after day.
 The second task was given to his father,
 To hang pots of water for birds to draw near. The vibrant creatures, their feathers bright, Found solace in the pots, a daily delight. Their beaks sipped the water, a sweet reward, A connection forged, between man and bird. They named him “Tota,” you see,
  A name to set him free.
 He tasted the water that the birds had sipped,
 And from that moment, his destiny was flipped.
 The tale of my great grandfather, woven with care, Mirroring the love, the trials they did bear.
 From the mortar’s embrace to the birds and vows,
From mulberry shades to raspy crows.
~ Vaishali Baisla

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