The boat ride through Alleppy's Back-Waters

We drift on
Meandering our way
through the numerous canals
as if to give company to those clusters
of drifting water hyacinth.
No hurry, the water goads the boat gently.
“Feast on the life that unfolds by my banks”,
it seems to say.
“Look how the simple lives of these folks
Keep them content and gay”!

There’s a boy who takes a bath.
By the canal banks he keeps a watch.
In welcome he waves, in between his wash.
And with mock disdain, he lets us pass.

The women folk of the village
Busy with their chores.
Washing the clothes, they beat them sore.
Keeping the home fire burning
Is no mean a feat.
To the banks they come,
To retreat or is it some inspiration they seek?

Some villages are small
with houses of mud and clay.
Thatched roofs of coir and dried leaves
that keep nature’s elements at bay.
The bigger villages have houses so pretty.
Painted in bright colours,
They appear to house only fun and gaiety.
The temples are old but churches bright and painted new.
In the land of red brigade,
Religion is not the opium of chosen few.

Canoes parked at the doorstep of every house.
The rich own a scooter, trawler or even a pair of yatch.
These are the means of transportation here.
For visiting a friend in another village,
Or going to the temple fair.

Evening descends
in a cacophony of birds’ chirp.
The boats look for a nook to cast anchor.
For its time to cast the fishing nets
And catch the fishes strolling in with the tide at sunset.

The mother daughter duo rows back to shore
From a trip,
Possibly to the market or the local store.
The grandfather is out for his evening stroll.
Rowing the canoe with all the strength in his bones.

So does life unfold
As we wind our way along.
Why do people go to Venice, I wonder
When Indian has places like the back-waters?