Hornbills of Dandeli

Debasis Tripathy

wild mango tree—no fruits this season— a treehouse—
nested on the fork of its tremendous branches—

holding us—the disquiet of the jungle creeps in I wake up—
5 a.m. —the air anguished with birdsongs—

not far—a fig tree huddles like a sister—
two trees make a family—but for how long— 

was a forest—in a vague sense, a perception defined
by absence of ancient trees—I prefer the past—

the present— tense denotes denuding—
the future already happened—I understand
so little about futurity

others have not been as lucky—felled & fed 
to the paper mills of Dandeli—
grand greed of man

see a pair of hornbills—the queen inside, outside the male—
busy closing a crevice in the trunk—creating

a Taj of their own—of mud & grass—
entering new life like a room for their kids 

of late—the weathers have been erratic—
I am one—unsure of whether it's a tomb

under construction for Mumtaz Mahal—can’t
make it alone without her king—

know this Shah Jahan is monogamous—after sealing
shut their nest—must return
alive—

About the writer