Tuesday, November 09, 2010

The stupid gardener

plants too many seeds.

No one really needs
a thousand flowers

no matter how sincere
their devotion to the sun;

haphazard as explosions
that do no damage

they are acts of pure sentiment
or failed attempts at speech,

predictable products of their season
and species

that a more discerning hand
would swiftly prune.

It takes a special kind
of stubbornness

to let them all bloom,
to bask content

in these riches
of embarrassment,

each awkward bud granted
its broken ground,

its mouth of air.

A special kind of madness to plant
flowers everywhere,

knowing that one or two
are all that will bear

fruit, all that will last;
to know the futility of the task,

and care enough
not to care.

R.I.P. P. Lal


drift wood said...

It's gratifying to read this on P Lal. In the days since his passing away, I found only an odd piece in the Telegraph. As someone who grew up in Kol and also studied under his son Prof Ananda Lal, P Lal had a profound influence on hundreds of univ students passing out from JU or Cal Univ in the 90's - not because we'd studied under him. Rather because, much before Sukanta Choudhary and his ilk, P Lal shone the light on eng lit in Kol without taking up a chair at Oxford or diverting from mainstream academics. His readings of the Mahabharata at Rabindra Sadan and lectures on Measure for Measure at Presidency Coll had packed auditoriums. I was lucky enough to enjoy both. I wasn't exactly sad, but disappointed that none of the columnists seemed to be talking, or even aware that someone like him was no more. Maybe i need to browse more.

Falstaff said...

drift wood: You may also want to check out The Economist.