By Nasrin Shahnaz
A story of four travellers,
Three generations of literature lovers.
Ridding on a modern car,
Exploring the less travelled paths of the countryside.
Never wanting to retire from that joy ride.
From hours and hours of it, yet not so tired.
Listening to vintage music--- old Hindi classics
Over Rock and Jazz and Blues,
In between Beatles, Eagles, Floyd, Jayanta Hazarika, and Zubin too.
How we laughed at every joke endlessly!
Embracing our hearts’ levity.
Plucking wildflowers from everywhere,
Sticking them on our scrapbooks here and there.
The dainty village Bourton-on-the-Water,
Straddling the Windrush River,
Loitering around the high streets on that afternoon so grand,
Amidst stony bridges, honey-colored homes, and radiant flowers
Felt like breathing in a fairyland.
“The woods [were] lovely, dark and deep”
Oh yes, Frost was there sitting beside me that misty evening.
•••
On crossing the Southern Cemetery
The mind unrested contemplating death,
Oh “Charaiveti, Charaiveti,”
On our way.
To Nature’s lap where once lived the great poets.
Detouring through lands till our hearts’ content.
Ridding along the fells and ribbon lakes,
Wandering if Wordsworth and Coleridge were writing there.
The green sylvan amidst the Cumbrians,
Played hide and seek with the sky.
The dry-stone walls snaking their way on the valley,
Moss-covered rocks telling ancient history.
Oh, the bliss we felt when the wind was rushing through our hair,
By the sides of Ullswater and Windermere.
What a view that was the lake mirroring the sky,
Sailing through the water in that soft drizzly air.
The brooks that were coming “from haunts of coot and hern”
Ushered the age-old tradition of going on,
Stretched my thought of the former day on “Ubi Sunt.”
•••
Again, we meandered through the hills,
Roads leading to never-ending thrills.
The green lands were spreading like a warm rug,
Sheltering the cattle, gently giving them Nature’s hug.
The violet and white patches in the meadows,
A land like a canvas, a play of light and shadow.
The scene nourished love “like a red red rose,”
Tilted heads with smiling faces collected memories in a pose.
The castle walls were so very high,
Safeguarding the royal tales,
Rich heritage of thistle, kilt, and melody of bagpipe.
In the crag dwelt once the great king,
“From the Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled”
Where the old man’s eternal love for poetry was fondly recalled.
In the city, we travelled through modern and ancient burgh,
Laughing at night to the comedy of Danny Bhoy— ah ha ha.
•••
In the Yorkish Moorland
The wind brought back memories of futile love affairs,
Of Heathcliff, Antoinette and,
Murders and murders.
The wilderness of wind stirred the desire to run toward the unknown past,
To taste the prodigious imagination of Brontes’ that last.
Living up on the hills, gazing at the land,
Pen in their hands.
Whispering, giggling, and scribbling in the room that common,
Gothicity runs on their pages like a mad woman.
And Branwell’s stare loomed ominously
from that portrait as he remained shadowy,
It paralleled the weather, so cold and rainy.
•••
Driving through the peaks,
The beauty of the wild rills,
The wind so profound,
Heaven on earth that we found.
The floating houses in Bridgewater Canal,
Days passed in the summer’s leisure.
In the Wales promenade, Debakanta was ringing,
“Sagar dekhisa” —Yes! Yes! My heart was singing.
We felt the sea, scooping shells to store,
Could we have ever asked for more? More?
While passing between the astounding Llanberis,
The stony edges of the sides, the scattered cascades,
And we halted near a stream,
When the weather poured that felt like a dream.
The icy water kissed our souls,
There she went bare feet —a heart so young.
•••
On the Snowdon mount top,
The sky was grieving, but we felt the joy,
The joy of feeling the freezy breeze on us in that hour,
Keeping the memories of a weeping sky safely in our heart’s corner.
We were wanderers amidst the clouds,
Climbing stairs leading to nowhere,
Oh, how we travelled miles to touch the sky,
With unfamiliar faces but stories so dear!
The sun was smiling as we were coming down,
The stoned walls were shining over the mount bed like a crown.
The happiness of that fleeting moment,
To witness the sound of waterfalls’ lament,
To watch the clouds drifting away,
On the blue canopy,
Hearts grieved to say Goodbye.
•••
There we went to the yellow city,
That once was the Roman’s Aquae Sulis,
A city so glorious, the Abbey so massive,
Where once the author walked in a mood pensive.
An author that never goes out of the press,
We tried and felt cute in her Regency dress.
Passing through the lanes where great minds were nurtured,
A province of knowledge how sacred!
Thought of rooting there solemnly passed by,
Watching young lives loitering so gaily.
Weeping willow seemed spirited and the deer too,
That punting weather lifted the busy blue.
•••
Alas, our trip coming to an end!
Anne, did you sleep here on your second-best bed?
Was this the yard where you and young William courted?
Generations of Hathaway that the cottage sheltered.
The dramatist living not so far,
Greatest plots of ages were blooming in there.
“To be, or not to be”
Oh, at your home how could anyone conceal the glee?
Riding back home, the setting sun was spilling flames,
And with that clouds were beautifying their widow hues.
“The chalk wall” by the sea, we went there before leaving,
The wild field, the tides, the castle up front how majestic,
Time was cruel and precious— tick, tick, tick.
We went on the route that Chaucer’s pilgrims followed,
Ending our journey with memories galore.
Thanking a thousand blessings to our guide, so kind and humble,
Foolish me before leaving was unable to mumble.
Back home on my bed, I dream of going there again,
And my "inward eyes" smile at the thought of "Paradise regained."