The Road Trip To Habarana

My wife and I, we got up just as the rooster
Was screaming out “dawn is here” in cockerel tongue
It sounded to us like “Cock-a-doodle-doo”
And we did doodle a little in thought
At the long drive to Habarana
But made up our minds early
To drive by 6 AM. And that journey through
Where the elephant rock and the rock temple stood,
Was a little bridge over a weekend
A pledge to make the best out of our
Early wedded years.
We stayed next to a massive structure of a man-made lake
Where elephants were used for a little
Tour with the mahout, and we saw the rich
Plodding on elephant-back and all we could think
About was the freedom we take so much for granted
The license of man to be freer than
The jungle fowl in the near Minneriya Park
Or the peacock that jumps like a ballet dancer
From tree to tree. Yet the sight of those
Elephants ferrying humans for a little safari
Struck an Otara-moment, a little uneasy,
A blue note, an after-thought
Even a little storm in the conscience.
You wonder
Whether the giant paw that sizes the ground in front
Can size the greed of the human heart.
And that gentle giant who does everything
A crooked pointed device tells him
Was a little outpouring of tristesse
– The wild one that roams the wilderness
Just for the sake of the call of the wild
Was now an unthinkable sight –
And we stayed for three nights in Habarana
Looking at the horror of the elephant
Marking a little elephantine presence
In our conscience. And we were
As oblivious as the might of the gentle giant,
At how a sinking feeling could drown
A vessel that speaks in a tongue of its own.
And we hemorrhaged something close
To our existences that day, as a billowing feeling burst
The patrolling conscience. And that bevy of
Elephants perhaps 100 odd meters away had our hearts
In hostage, in sheer surrender. Stockholm syndrome
Was now an incurable disease.
The beast had fallen for the beauty.



Carpe diem! The eternal words
Of a Dead Poets Society.

Present, is the moment
When the aura of tomorrow
Seduces an action, and the past
Is left lurking, in the conclusion
Of the absence of renewal
Of lapsed time. And the present
Is best designed, when you least anticipate it
And the future creeps unnoticed
And makes a little incursion, a prelude of sorts.
– The foretaste of a kiss, the foreplay to love
Foreigners that become familiar,
The forensic that blooms avalanches,
And landslides that drown
An inch of melancholy.

When what time encloses in a moment
Is freed from time’s embrace
Famished history is fed with the future,
Through the always insatiable lips
Of a black hole.