Blossom In The Dust
which blooms in a desert.
The blossom in dust.
Sure there are holes in the sari.
The bare feet look tired and tense.
But there is ribbon in the hair.
And the eyes are deep and soft.
Is it the desert which defines the flower?
Or the flower which defines the desert?
Filling The Basket
Of these tracks.
Where do they come from?
Where do they go?
I do not know.
I only walk a mile or two.
That fills up the basket.
Not easy.
Not by itself.
I must keep walking.
In fact, crawling.
Looking.
Carefully, sifting.
To find pieces of black coal in this pile of rail dust.
It has to be black.
And hard.
If not, no one will buy it.
And the night will pass without food.
Refrigerator
Refrigerator.
For dry, thirsty tongue and throat.
Cold water bottles can be stocked.
Also Thumps-Up, Pepsi or Coke.
Ice is there, when needed.
Butter doesn't melt.
For breakfast in the morning
One doesn't have to go shopping.
Eggs, sausages, loafs of bread.
Enough for a table's spread.
So also mangoes, apples, guavas.
Grapes and papayas.
And the many sauces.
And cheeses.
Today's milk can be used tomorrow.
Food doesn't have to be cooked everyday.
Not that those who have refrigerators have to cook.
Cooks, mostly, cook for them.
Still, the left-overs can be put away.
For the day after, or the next day.
Mutton Do-piaza
Fish Masala
Mughlai Chicken
Murgh Biryani
Or plain dhal, subzi and rice.
It can all be kept, and saved.
Yes, it is good to have a refrigerator.
As long as you do not have to haul it.
On your bare back.
Up the hill.
Hill after hill.
Curve after curve.
There are others who will do it.
For a hundred rupees.
Who do not have to worry about left-overs.
But ony for what they have, or can have, want to have.
For the day.
Walking By
The sight hurt.
The loud wail hurt.
The way she bangs her head on the concrete.
For a few pennies.
It was difficult.
But I must walk by.
Hard, difficult, day it was.
In the office.
Work.
Work.
Piles of Work.
The Head Clerk was angry.
It is hot, humid.
It is late.
Children should be home.
I must buy some vegetables.
Will the landlord come again tonight?
Rent wasn't paid last month.
Wish she wasn't doing all this.
Banging her head on the pavement.
What can I do?
I must go home.
Will someone do something?
So the wailing stops.
Begging stops.
And the landlord will not threaten.
Three Wise Men
We are only boys.
Are we wise?
No.
We cannot read.
We cannot write.
We do not go to school.
We never have.
Going to school cost money.
Fees, clothes, books, pencils, slates.
All this cost money.
And going to school cost time.
Do we have the time?
who will look after the cattle?
Or, the little brothers and sisters?
The many chores around the fields?
Cutting fodder?
Fetching water?
But none of this has to be done today.
Not for the moment anyway.
A big wise man has come from the city.
With a camera.
All and the big wise men are gathered under the big banyan tree.
The shcool teacher.
The medicine man.
The postman.
The big Patel.
All the big wise men of the village are there.
The big, unwise men too.
Like our fathers.
Wish we could be close and listen.
They are talking about land.
The problem of land.
But, no.
We cannot be close.
'Cause we are only boys.
And we are not wise.
But when big wise men (and also big unwise men) talk about land we know it is important.
We try to listen, as much as we can.
The Wheels
A few more blows and it'll be done.
This wheel.
We'll then fill it up. With air.
We'll put it together.
And it'll move you.
Your vehicle.
Fast.
As fast as you make it.
Yes, I fix wheels.
Day in, day out, every day.
So the wheels keep moving.
You keep moving.
HISTORY keeps moving.
But youu still can't move as fast as I do.
History cannot move as fast as I do.
For each year, you have to live through all its months.
For each month, you have to live through all its days.
For each day, all its hours.
And each minute of the hour.
Every second of the minute.
You have to live through all of it.
I SKIP WHOLE EPOCHS.
Epochs of my life.
Like my childhood.
The books, the slates, the kites, the fights, the marbles, the smiles, the butterflies.
The cuddles of mama, and the strokes of papa.
I skipped all of it.
And in some years when I will be young, I will be old.
I will have skipped one more epoch.
My youth.
No, you cannot move as fast as I do.
History cannot move as fast as I do.
I fix your wheels.
WHO HAS FIXED MINE?
Landless
YOU!!
What do you want?
Season after season, we see you.
The likes of you.
What do you want to know?
Caste?
no, we are Outcastes.
Food?
hardly.
Home?
if you call it so.
Land?
no. No. NO.
Listen!
Do you want to know something?
Give us land.
Some land.
Not promises, but land.
Land, we can call our own.
Land, with no landlord.
Land, we could work on.
Land, whose product we could own.
So, no one could throw us out
burn our homes
rape our women
roast us alive.
Yes, give us land.
Then we will have food.
Clothes.
Home.
Dignity.
Maybe, we will have a Caste too.
Right now,
we have nothing.
We are landless.
Paddy Field
Hard on the feet, in muddy waters.
Hard on the back, bent all the time.
Men did their part.
Filled the field with water.
Ploughed it.
Ploughed it again.
Prepared the seed-bed.
It is our turn now.
Planting seedlings one by one.
In straight rows.
It is hard work.
But there is music in the air.
The little rice plants are dancing.
There is joy in working together.
And there is hope.
The little seedlings will grow.
There will be rice.
Not much, but enough for some months.
If only the landlords weren't there
to take half of it away.
Why doesn't the cameraman go away?
So we could resume our singing.
There is music in the air.
And the little rice plants are dancing.
Oblivious
Let there be footsounds by the ears.
Let the world go around its daily business.
There isn't a need greater
than the need of the body.
It is tired.
It stretches out.
And closed, heavy eyelids
become the roof.
The walls.
The closed door.
Like the inside of a home.
It isn't hard pavement.
It is bed.
The need of the body
makes you oblivious.
But why are the others oblivious?
Busily bypassing stretched out bodies?
Because there are so many of them.
Stretched out on every sidewalk.
And the numbers keep increasing,
year after year.
It is Calcutta.
Kilvenmani Orphan
The beads shine.
The hair, the eyes, the face,
everything shines.
Drops of dew facing the rising sun.
And she is shy.
Softly she comes over when I ask.
Softly she smiles when I touch her.
Softly she holds my hand.
Am I numb?
Am I grieving?
Words, voice fail.
But she knows we were talking about her father.
About her mother.
About the forty-four men, women and children.
Roasted alive. By the landlords.
About the many homes razed.
An orphan of a class war she is.
Of barbaric repression.
People without land getting together.
Standing together.
For the right to form a union.
For higher wages.
But they lost the round.
Against the guns of the landlords.
Against high flames.
Against the power of property,
with the State behind.
In the middle of night, they burnt twenty-eight homes.
And forty-four humans.
For days and weeks there was smell of death in the air.
Of live flesh burning.
Has the union gone?
No.
Togetherness?
No.
Class struggle?
No.
The razed homes rise again.
Survivors looking after each other.
And orphan of class war smiles.
The teeth, the beads, the eyes, the face, everything shines.
And people there tell me it is going
to be different next time.
They have learnt the lesson.
At heavy cost.
They know the power of the enemy.
Guns, flames, the State.
It will be matched.
I squeeze the little hand in my hand.
She smiles.
Does she know?
Looking After
Goats do not play.
They only play tricks on me.
Crossing into people's fields.
That hurts.
Abuses. Slaps. Kicks.
By the owner of the field.
By the owner of the goats.
By father too.
I mustn't let the goats play tricks.
I mustn't sleep.
I mustn't lie under the tree.
But I want to talk.
I want to play.
With someone.
Anyone.
And I want to go to school.
Like I used to.
To read. To count.
To add and subtract.
To play.
That was fun.
But Ma said: School isn't for the likes of us.
I must look after goats.
Other people's goats.
It is two rupee fifty paisa per month.
For each goat.
It adds up.
It helps.
I do not mind.
If only the goats didn't play tricks on me.
If only there was someone to talk to.
To play with.
Looking after goats, other people's goats,
is no fun.
'Cause these goats do not talk.
They do not play.
The only play tricks on me.
Naxalbari
'Cause it rained.
Not a lot.
But the earth is soft.
More, for sure, will come.
For now, soil must turn.
The cycle must churn.
It is my land.
And it isn't.
It is mine because I work on it.
Plough it. Seed it. Nurse it.
Know every bit of it.
Have done so all my life.
My father too.
And his father.
It is not land.
It is Ma
Dharti Ma.
Eternal Ma.
Mother Earth.
Bountiful. Kind. Generous.
Season after season.
Year after year.
It gives us all what we need.
It is all we seek.
Yes, it is all we seek.
'Cause this land is NOT mine.
'Cause I do not get all what it gives.
The mother gives.
As reward for my labour.
Our labour.
The landlord takes much of it away.
As rent.
As interest for the money
his father gave my father.
He does not labour.
He only owns my land.
Many people's land.
All that we changed.
We rose.
Thousands upon thousands of us.
Together.
With bows and arrows.
Spears. Guns.
They ran away.
The landlords.
The money-lenders.
The State.
We became Naxalbari.
And the land, this land was all mine.
But they came back.
Something went wrong.
Army. Police. Tanks. Flames.
Our leaders in jail.
Our brothers and sisters,
our neighbours, slain.
There will be time to start again.
To take it over.
No more rent.
No more interest.
In the meantime,
it is time to plough the land.
My land.
Our land.
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