Tuesday, April 28, 2009

my 2 pence...

they told me to participate
& took my thumbprint
while I clutched at the soggy food packet
& scuttled to my field
my baby wailing
its a lot hotter now
the fields are wilting
like my aged mother
Her partner....
My father speaks of glorious days
of yore..
and I wonder
shouldn't our dreams be glorious too?
My baby's father..
strong and wise
but he too gets scared
with these men and women from town
shiny white skins 
fancy clothes, talks, ways
why do they come here?
our good doctor is scared too..
even the school master
they come more now,
I store some food for them
give them local things
after all government has posted them for my baby
I do not mind the hardships
only they're increasing
how much can I do?
and then these visitors
almost everyday..
interested in us
our lives are so interesting
they're good people
they talk of dreams
of glorious futures
unlike my father..
It was better when I was a child
my needs were few
I knew little
& did not have to repeat
simple facts of village life
again and again
before these white, car borne people
this world is so big
wonder if my baby
will wear these clothes someday
if she lives...
the problems are increasing
so many diseases
so many deaths
and so many people from towns
all intelligent, wise
our lives are the thoroughfares
so many pictures taken
of me, my baby, my pontificating father...
market day is coming
I have nothing to sell
how will I buy the food
Maybe I will go to the rally
and speak at the meeting...
at least food for a day
& some money
will they count my baby as one?
the other day, a wise man had come
a big teacher, somewhere
smiled a lot, saw us, our house
saw our broken fields, empty vessels
an enquiring gaze
and put us into his notebooks
I asked him if he could give me one
for my baby..
he called us
made us talk
listened to our dreams
did he know we were awake then?
those were daydreams that we shared
he wanted to know about us
we told him...
shared our food, our lives
danced in the evening
that was the evening my father died
and took his glorious dreams with him
he will not see my fourth
the first two had died in his arms
this time I feel weak
maybe all those injections
the good doctor gave me
& marked his coloured papers..
my brother had bought once
town medicines, cost a month's wages
but they did not work on him
he suffered till the end
a bad disease...
thats what the doctor said..
tomorrow I must pray
a special prayer for my baby
I am a good singer
so, God listens to me
I will ask him..
take us further away
away from these gazes...of inquiry
I can sing more to you.


Raihan Jamil said...

Did you write this?

Does this have something to do with eroticizing the other and having . . . with them? :)

Ektu bujhiye den (please explain a little).

-He Who Must Not Be Named.

Lala said...

The poem was written by a tribal woman from a remote Koraput village...maybe from Bangladesh or some other remote village..it is nothing about eroticizing. which portions u found erotic?

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