They were
not made of rags and moss
They had
mothers
They were
mothers themselves
They had
names, by which
Since their
childhood
Till the day
of their assassination
They were
called
Even in the
voices of those who killed them!
They had
faces,
Bodies,
hairs,
And they had
shadows in the sun,
On the
fields by the Ganges
They had
their hours of work
And each
time they had to be paid wages!
Just as the
whole earth had to see
Through Galileo’s
telescope!
They were
not ashes and lies
They were
mothers
And who
says? Who? Which brute?
That they
gave birth without any desire?
Their womb
was not indifference
Their womb
was not a mistake
Their womb
was not habit
Some intoxication
some intoxication
Their womb
was not assault
Who says
that?
Which economist?
They had
lovers
They had
resonance
They were
mothers
They also
had their nine months
Not inside a
whale – but in the world
Nine months
of the world!
The world is
but complete everywhere in the world
Indivisible
It can in no
way be divided
Then this
desolate hunt of motherhood?
You would
never like
The whole
world to come to that village
Where those
toiling women were killed!
Of which country
are they citizens
When all
evidences of their existence are wiped out?
Till last
evening
And till last
midnight
They were
among the people of the earth
As the earth
itself
As the
killers themselves
But today
morning?
When they
were burnt alive last night!
Does this
world of the living
Rest only on
the living?
Even in
today’s morning they are
In the people
of earth
Their friends
are there
Their poets
Their failures
By which has
been influenced, the Indian Time
Only their
own class is not their time!
By tomorrow
evening
This charred
ground
Will emit
the flamelet of an unbaked earthen lamp
And call
Its new
inhabitants.
They were
not nomads
There were
imprints of their pitchers
On the parapet
of the well
Marks of their
axes are
On the white
trunk of that ‘Sheesham’
Stones placed
by them
To climb
down the dam
There are
paths on the ground made by their daily treading.
Not all of a
sudden from somewhere
But travelling by the shores of Nile
They reached
this place.
They had
doors
Through which
one could see
The cradle
Coloured ribbons
for their hairs
The papaya-tree
Freshly mowed
grass
And tobacco-leaves
Drying slowly
And also the
spear to kill snakes.
They were
not stains and noise.
They had
lamps
Animals
Homes
They had
homes
In which
grams were slowly cooked on fire
Flour was
kneaded
There was
salt in earthen pots
Which oozed
in the monsoons.
They had
homes
Which stood
in the routes of cats.
There night
would fall
The moon
would grow round
There were
walls
They had
yards
Where straws
would drift in
And would be
picked in mid-air
By birds.
There was
imagination.
There was
memory.
There were
walls
On which
were marks of clouds and horns
Walls
Which stopped
the bushes
From going
to the yard.
Walls of
homes
Solid desires
of settling
They made
them with wet lumps of clay
Not with the
bristles of a porcupine
Not with the
nails of a bear
Which fraud
shows them like a jungle
By his
cameras on the silver screen
They were
earthen walls
Not ancient
rocks
Every year
they were coated
With layers
of fresh earth!
Those were
their homes – not waitings.
Not hollows
in a tree
Not mice
held in the claws of a flying kite.
Their homes
were not in the jaws of a lion
In the map
of the whole world they were
A definite
place, complete in themselves.
So early in
the morning they used to come for work
Their ‘aanchals’
got wet with the dew
And with the
moon that had barely set
So early in
the morning they came
Where did
they come from? Where?
Why did they
come so early in the morning
For which
country did they come so early in the morning
Did they
come only for the masters
So early in
the morning
Not for me?
Not for you?
Did their
coming so early in the morning
Mean only
feeding their families?
How do you look
at this labour?
The oil-well
which is being rigged
In the
Indian sea
Is it
outside my life?
Is it just a
government job?
How do you
look at labour?
They never
said that the cities
Are fraud
and a trap
For them the
cities were not
Merely jails
and lost court-cases
They looked
at the cities
Not through
the eyes of wild animal!
Cities came
and went in their lives
Not only as
things and laws
But most of
all with their sons
Who may be
seen even now
All around
the chimneys!
They were
killed
They did not
commit suicide
The importance
and celebration of this fact
Will never be
blurred in poetry!
What was
there in their being
For which
they were burnt alive?
In the final
years of the twentieth century
In front of
a country
Where a
parliament sits
What was
there in their being
Which could
not be purchased
Which could
not be made use of,
Which could
only be burnt in fire
That too at
midnight, like cowards,
Encircled by
guns.
I am
repeating the words continually
I am making
a big propaganda
Of a single
fact!
My everything
depends
On this
simple fact!
What was
there in their being
Which could
not be destroyed
Even by
burning!
Their trails
were not frenzied swords
Their populace
has not wiped out like that of kings!
Owners of mad
elephants and blind canons
Became living
fossils
But the
tillers with wooden ploughs
Are tilling
Queens have
disappeared
Their memory
has not the value
Even of
rusted tin
Queens have
disappeared
But the
women reaping the harvest up to the horizon
Are reaping
the harvest.
_______________________________
Translated by Bidyut Pal & Roma Prakash
(in 1990s)
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