It is almost dawn when we start our boat from the makeshift ghat.
In search of the silver harvest —
Lurking beneath the swirling waters of the Matla river.
Ilish, as they call it in town.
It is raining, the sharp daggers of rain almost pierce our tanned skins
As we cast a hopeful net and watch with hawk eyes through the haze;
For the god of river to fill our coffers with living silver.
Matla, o mother, you make us toil hard for the treasure.
My brother is not home this week.
He left three days ago.
He paid his homage to the Banbibi temple and then left for the jungle.
He will stay for one week, searching for beehive in the sylvan wilderness.
As he silently dodges past the bush thorn and stinging nettle,
And skips over the Sundari roots,
One eye will be looking up towards the tangled branches.
The other eye will be ever vigilant,
To catch one glimpse of the king of the jungle.
He has his axe and his fire but —
He knows that his strongest weapon is his prayer and the ever-vigilant eye of the Dakshinaroy
And the lucky charm of the mystic fairies of the jungle.
As he battles the swarm of mosquitoes and ticks
He hopes to find the elusive sweet brown treasure —
Honey.
My wife and my daughter left home before sunrise.
They have their cloth nets and bamboo baskets ready.
They must take their position in the mud as early as possible
For the prawn seeds to come their way.
Their feet are cold from the salty water;
The same salty water that peels off their delicate skin.
While they collect the prawn seeds, something stings their foot suddenly.
They are paralyzed with fear—
Hope it is not a snake!
But then they remember the sweets and milk offered to the Manasha temple
Surely Manasha Mata will protect them?
I have come home in the evening.
My wife smiles, for it was a good day.
She got a basketful of prawn.
Perhaps we can now mend that door broken by cyclone last year.
But my brother is still not home.
As the wind howls over the blue expanse and the crimson sun sets,
As the spoonbills search for one last snail,
We eat our uneasy dinner with our parched mouths
And light a hopeful lamp in the Deul.
Dr Rudrajit Paul is a consultant Physician in Kolkata with a passion for poetry. He is a member of IPPL, Kolkata. He regularly writes poems in both Bengali and English. His poems have been published in Bengali magazines like Kishore Bharati and the online magazine, Maadhukari.
Featured image: Maitheli Maitra / Unsplash