I feel that the spirits of the ancestors are trying to say something.
As if a message of an unending task.
And the characters are portrayed in the pale canvas
I hear the sound of dew in the fog of the winter night.
Scenario of nature has changed itself in the emptiness of the lost souls.
I can feel the ancient smell of earth in the ancestral habitat.
A neem tree has grown carelessly in the middle,
so many memories, so many warm heart touches are piled up here.
The house that used to be bathed in dreamy soft lamplight, the altar of Lakshmi
today turned into a skeleton of bare soil.
But even today I feel that group of cursed angels clinging to the scene of that earthen mound with the memories of childhood in absolute pity.
With some hope for their descendants.
Nothing should be said, even without the lighting of a lamp in the hope of paternal Tarpan” in the hope of fulfilling the promise of some unfinished obligations…

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