No matter what window he looked out of, there would always be a mountain facing him, trees swaying on the slopes. But instead of blocking h...
No matter what window he looked out of, there would always be a mountain facing him, trees swaying on the slopes. But instead of blocking his view, it sharpened his vision, so much so that he could even see what the tree birds saw in their sleep. Listening to him, you wanted to leave everything to master the language of leaves, whose rustle he wove into whatever he wrote. As for trees, he had this belief:
The earth and the sky are present together in them
the trees were when we weren’tmore than them we have their memories
they are made of the sleep of a million sparrows
During the ten years I knew Manglesh Dabral, I always wanted to find out what he himself was made of.
I can’t say for sure that I have fully succeeded in my quest. His poems, of course, offer a clue, but you still had to meet the man to gauge the full import of his words, which absorbed the compassion his eyes exuded.
An undated diary entry shows what he was out to achieve:
“Above all, I want to write a lucid poem. A very transparent poem whose words are the scenes of those events about which the poem is. Words are opaque. Behind them there...
