SUNDOWN

RECOLLECTIONS

Dear reader, you may perhaps be curious about the title of the opening poem. “SUNDOWN” is my first recorded poem. I composed it when I was fifteen and a pupil at the Lawrence College, Ghora Gali, situated in the temperate forest region of the Murree Hills, over 5,000 feet above sea level.

At the conclusion of a period of English literature, the English master suggested that we each write a short poem on any subject—even a few lines would suffice.

That evening, after practicing at the nets, I was climbing the steep path from New Field with some friends. One of my companions said, “Oh, look at the sunset. Look at that golden ball of fire!” I stopped and gazed for a few moments. Dramatic sunsets were a common sight during the monsoon season, but I had never previously taken much notice. I had been a boarder at the school for five years, spending nine months of every year there. Later, hurrying to my dormitory to wash and tidy up before supper, the image of a golden orb being lowered below the horizon took my fancy. Words began arranging themselves in my mind, taking shape like the tiny pieces of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope.

Throughout supper, I was preoccupied and engrossed in my poem. I roughed out lines that did not look right when put into words, but I succeeded in the composition of four stanzas before the hour was over—to the detriment of other work! I re-wrote the poem neatly next day, and eagerly awaited the next period of English literature, so that I could produce it.

The master was pleased with the response from the whole class. Poems were read out; constructive discussions followed and several poems were pinned on the class notice board. I enclosed a copy with my weekly letter to my mother, and she put it with other documents and certificates, so that it was preserved.

I came to England in March 1948 and was searching for some documents when I came across the poem and read it through, with nostalgia. The hands of the time machine were put back. I saw again the lofty mountains, clothed with pine woods and oak forests on their lower slopes. I saw the massive barrack-like school building with the boys running about in the quadrangle, all bathed in liquid gold. I have seen sunsets in Africa, on board ship in the Indian Ocean, during flights in V.C. 10 aircraft, and in England. I have taken many colour photographs, which can be admired at will, but this picture that remains in my memory surpasses them all.

SUNDOWN

The toils of day are now complete.

The sun sinks in the west.

Little lambs are heard to bleat

As birds fly off to rest.

The sun while slowly sinking low

Displays rich colour, all aglow.

Amidst a cloud of fleecy white

A golden orb is led.

And as we watch, the glorious sight

Changes to glowing red.

A mass of dark cloud now appears.

I close my eyes, suppress the tears.

Instead of darkness, now a glow

Of purple becomes indigo.

Now it is crimson; salmon light

A skein of geese fly into sight.

On the horizon as I blink.

The clouds are steeped in palest pink.

The moments pass, the colours change,

The pink clouds now are fading fast.

The sun behind the mountain range,

“Oh, what splendour, will it last?”

So watching still with trained eye,

I see the glory fade and die.

FIVE HOLY MEN PANCH PIR

RECOLLECTIONS

One day, I was standing on one side of a wide mullah, a short distance from where I lived, looking across at a hill covered with the lush green foliage of bamboo and other tropical trees. In a fold in the landscape, a depression had been caused by a natural upheaval of the earth, many thousands of years ago. Nearby, when conditions were right, a tiny white object was visible. I had been told it was a temple, but I did not examine it at close quarters until several years later.

When I did visit the temple with some friends, we ascended five steps to a platform at the top of the plinth. We walked round, finding that the temple had five façades, equal in every respect. Each of the walls contained an ornate archway in the centre that led into antechambers in which the congregation attended the pir, or priest.

Each façade was decorated with different symbols carved or painted by craftsmen, but formed a segment of the whole temple, a door leading from each antechamber to a sanctum sanctorum—five altars adjacent, yet separated by walls on each side, thereby being independent, like the segments of an orange, five in one and one in five.

A minaret rose from each junction of the façade walls, having only one access, through a small door in each antechamber that led to a narrow spiral stairway up to a tiny apartment. One window looked out over the surrounding forest from the top of each minaret.

The pentagonal block of altars was covered with a dome of five flats in line with the five antechambers, tapering to a spire. Over each minaret, a flag fluttered—one red, one yellow, one green, one blue, and one violet, the basic colours of light. I had always been curious, and now I was determined to learn more about the origin of this Mandir.

I visited the locality over many years, made friends with the peasants, and questioned them discreetly until I had pieced together the story.

Five holy men, it seems, were driven from their homes by circumstances. Each one experienced a compulsive urge to visit Benares and bathe in the sacred River Ganges.

Guided by an unknown force, they met in the shade of a huge peepul tree on the edge of a jungle. They became friends, decided to travel north together, and off they went, across plain and through forest, each one clad in a single garment and roughly-made shoes, with only a stave to lean on. They did not beg for food, but were welcomed wherever they went, teaching the elders of the villages the uses of common herbs and minerals for the curing of sores or sickness, and being fed in return. They slept in the open fields, and after years of adversity and suffering, they arrived at last in the bazaar, where they administered to the sick. Late that night, they resumed their travels, but being too tired to proceed, they lay down to rest.

They awoke to realize they had reached their final resting place, as I have described in my poem. The peasants assured me that the everlasting water in that pond was a gift from their god Vishnu. During all the years that I visited the temple, I noted that the water was always clear and sweet, although other lakes and village ponds dried out before the annual return of the monsoon rains.

During the early summer each year, a mela is held in the vicinity. The temple is repainted, whitewashed, and garlanded with flowers and streamers of leaves. Strings of marigold are placed around the altars, and tiny oil-filled clay receptacles with cotton wicks are lit, winking like fireflies in the darkness.

FIVE HOLY MEN

Five holy men of Orient

A pilgrimage did make.

They crossed the widest rivers,

A course due north did take.

They travelled slow, and sandals wore.

By pale moonlight, on sandy shore

Did rest and sleep with peasants good

Who shared with them their frugal food.

For many moons they traveled on.

They left behind the fields of corn,

To the foothills, forest clad.

A staff and robe was all they had.

The month of July it was then.

These devout men were good indeed.

While passing little villages,

They aided those in need.

The monsoon rains were overdue,

The streams were dry, the lakes were, too.

Water, water, all were asking,

All about the birds lay gasping.

The days passed by, they struggled on.

Their sandals were all cut and torn.

Their feet were swollen and sore.

At last they could move no more.

They lay down in the dark of night,

Upon the grass and reeds so dry.

As one did say, who saw their plight,

These holy men will surely die.

Late next morning, they did rise

And looked up into the cloudless skies.

They made an altar, of one stone

For sins of men they did atone.

The wrath of HIM who stayed the rain,

These holy men appeased again.

As they prayed, it was a sight;

The noonday did become as night.

The light was dim, the sky o’ercast,

The earth, it shook and quivered.

The holy men sank down again;

Terror struck, they shivered.

The hillside was split in twain.

When the pilgrims looked again,

The sky was clear and at their feet

A welcome sight their gaze did greet.

Pouring from within a cleft,

The earthquake had some water left.

They quenched their thirst, and made a vow,

A temple we will build here, now.

Water! Water! The peasants shout,

The news soon went from mouth to mouth.

Disciples gathered round about,

Their fame spread east, west, north, and south.

Slabs of rock and wood from trees,

Clay from the lakes, all were free.

The craftsmen worked with mighty will.

The temple rose high on the hill.

The lake that formed about its base

Grew ever deeper, wide, and clear.

The GOD looked down and blessed the place.

The holy men were filled with cheer.

Many years have passed since then,

The temple built with spires five.

The legend goes, these holy men

Did for many years survive.

The water never peters out,

Though all the country is in drought.

Man and beast come here to drink.

Of holy men again they think.

The temple stands there white and clean.

One spire for each pilgrim seen.

In closing I must gladly say

It stands there to this very day.

GANGA GEE THE SACRED RIVER GANGES

RECOLLECTIONS

One day, during the midday break, I was sitting with my mates in the sun outside the Tool Room in Liverpool, munching sandwiches and reading the local paper. One of the lads asked me if I had read the article in the previous evening paper, referring to the floods that had caused havoc in East Pakistan.

“Were you ever in that area?” he asked.

In fact, I never went further east than Allahabad, a large city at the confluence of the Ganges and Jumna Rivers. Still I enjoy telling about my experiences in India, where I lived for thirty-seven years, and my colleague’s question started me off.

I told them of my holidays spent in Allahabad, where I had seen the junction of the two mighty rivers—each stream a different colour, one muddy and the other comparatively clear. This is due to the different soil through which they flow before coming together. They remain separate for a long distance before they merge.

I recollect years spent in Mussoorie, Dehra Dun and the surrounding areas, and seeing thousands of pilgrims detraining at Hardwar, to make their way to a small tributary of the Ganges to bathe. Women and children, old or sick were being carried or helped along.

I composed this poem after many weeks, jotting down a line or stanza now and then, as I watched my machine or meditated during breaks during the working day, until one evening, I sat and wrote the fair copy.

The mighty and ruthless River Ganges is over one thousand five hundred miles long, draining an area of approximately four thousand square miles. Ganga Gee is worshipped by all classes of Hindu. Water from the sacred river is sealed in gallon drums and cans to be sold all over India.

GANGA GEE—THE SACRED RIVER GANGES

Ever onwards, night and day

Turbulent water flows,

Minding not the winding way

Or rock o’er which it goes.

Through valleys deep, on pebbled bed,

O’er ridges high it falls.

The sparkling water bounds ahead,

Obeying the ocean’s call.

Issuing from a mountainside,

Fourteen thousand feet up high,

The Ganges River first appears.

Vast Indian plains afar off lie.

Himalayan snow constantly feeding,

Every mile its volume swells.

Bear and yak, its icy water

Drink in peace, in quiet dells.

Pine and fir stand on its bank,