Past the dry bamboo shoots and the grass so dead,
Past these rocks framing the dusty path I tread,
I'm signalled to a stop by the tree tops glowing red.
What is this flashing daytime fire... What fuel has it been fed?
Oh thats the 'Palash' - the flame of the forest, my inner voice said.
The black twisted branches, the croppings of round leaves so jade...
The fiery flamelets of the flowers, waiting for their chance to be shed.
The fire it seems, is flowing into the ground ahead.
It seeps through my feet and soon all I see is red.
The sound of drums into my ears flows,
a horde of warriors rush into my head.
Drawn are their bows, their swords, like their skins, bared.
Past me they march to a war of freedom,
which no one before has dared.
The hills cower as the fire climbs,
of the gunfire and cannons it is not afraid.
It has to burn the redcoats down, or for this land be shed.
The war was lost, but not without honour, though many lives were laid.
It was a jolt for others to fight before their memories fade.
Alone now, with the Palash, I stand proud on this red soil,
Fighting again to retain something for which they have bled.
The title seems tempting to accredit this idea to the Battle of Palashi [or Plassey] between the British and Nawab Siraj-ud-Daula in 1757. The place is named after a dense forest of Palash [Butea sp.]. That was the first real battle the East India Company prided themselves for facing on Indian soil. Though the latter had a bigger force and cannons too, he succumbed to his lack of scientific sense and ofcourse treachery.
But infact, I have been inspired by the Santal rebellions of 1855. Though overshadowed by the 1857 Mutiny, it was one of the first battles against oppression of those times. For ages the Santal tribes had resided in hills of the then Indian states of Orissa, Bengal and Bihar. On setting foot here, the British and their cronies however grabbed their land per force or cheating and got them into inhuman bondage... So the uprising was due.
It was like a forest-fire trying to outshine the Sun. Fought by a minority group of tribals, only with their exceptional archery skills to match the guns & cunning of the Enemies of their Freedom. The Santals led by their 'rebel' leaders, Sidhu and Kanhu Murmu, took refuge in the Palash forests in the hilly districts of what is now Jharkhand, India. Their guerilla tactics were very unheard of and caused the Redcoats a lot of trouble until they were drawn out, away from their home the forest. The whole tribe was decimated over 2 years, but not before the words of resentment and the smoke-cloud of rebellion against the British oppression was passed on to others also pining for freedom.
I was recently in West Bengal, passing through a Palash forest in full bloom. I have grown up climbing trees, including those of Palash. Then, the flowers, boiled in water, were a source of a rich yellow dye to us. With some fragrant flowers added to the broth, it was an excellent natural colour for Holi. But this time, the Palash's image seems so different. I have always known the names of Sidhu-Kanhu and now for the first time, I felt closer to them.
How can one supress one's energy when Spring is setting the surroundings on Fire? Its not just the Palash, but we also have the Silk-cotton tree [Semul, Kapok, Bombay ceiba] and the Indian Coral Tree [Erythrina indica] adding to the fire their oranges, reds & vermillion. In all a way of Nature to bring out people's true nature. :)
PS: Dont hate [or sue] me for the copyrighted picture. It will be replaced with an original one as soon as I get one.
