By Raghavendra Muzomdar
THERE once was an Indian
Who didn’t know
Whether he was
A Red Indian or brown
A West Indian or East
Aryan or Mayan
Kannadiga or tarai Himalayan
Hindu or non-
Sudra or Brahmin.
He set out one day
To research his roots
And determine of what clay
Was he made and which dress suits?
He traveled far and wide
Sailed along the Yukon
Scaled Mt. K-2 without his shoes on
Drifting sands of Kalahari
Or deafening waves of the roaring Forties
Didn't deter him.
Serene lake Manas Sarovar
Marshy Oke Finokee
Dark jungles of Congo
He trekked each one of them.
He visited the temples
Haunted Viharas
Churches, Sabbaths, Mosques and Gurudwaras
His feet ached and forehead got wrinkles.
He read books on history
Microbiology and chemistry
But failed to solve the mystery.
Zoology, anthropology
Had nothing to offer but an apology.
Astronomy and literature...
No answer came as none was there.
Alas, he grieved
But kept his search continued
Some times he meditated, some times travelled
And some times to books he glued.
And one day the jnana dawned
Upon him as it did on the Prince
He read nuclear science
And exclaimed "How clear now!"
He spake unto himself
"That isn't the question.
"It doesn't matter.
"What matters is -
"The matter.
"And what remains to be seen is
"When it splits.
"Indian or un-
"Will I remain in the en'?"
(19.3.83)
RAGHAVENDRA MUZOMDAR