WHAT IS RADICAL?
What is radical in today’s India?
Unfortunately, nothing very different
From what was radical in yesterday’s India:
Poverty that afflicts the fair face of the nation
Like pockmarks of a smallpox
declared long since eradicated:
Hunger that gnaws at our innards
Like an insatiable monster
Shrinking the skins
And misshaping the bellies
Of starving children:
Casteism, Communalism,
Gender Discrimination
The Ogres that prey upon us
Despite all our collective efforts
And all our protective laws
And institutions meant to safeguard
The rights of the downtrodden
The basic rights of Man.
 |
| Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia |
Our only new radicalism
Is that we have learnt to denigrate
The very Man the world honours the most:
The Father of Our Nation,
Mahatma Gandhi.
***
THE BIRTH
Standing outside the Post Office
I hailed an autorickshaw
The young driver stopped by me
In a trice.
I hopped in and said, “Gulmohar Colony.”
He nodded and set off
With no more ado.
Glancing in the rear-view mirror,
I noticed his eyes were bloodshot.
Taking advantage of my advanced age,
I said, “Son, it seems you didn’t sleep last night.”
He did not take offence,
But shrugged tiredly and said,
“That’s true, Maaji.
I could not get any sleep last night.”
“What happened?” I probed
“My wife gave birth at 3 am today.
It was a third daughter.”
His shoulders sagged defeatedly.
“I see,” I said.
“Who is with them right now?”
“Nobody. She is in the Government Hospital.
The two girls are also sitting by her bed.
There is no one to take care of them at home.”
“Could you not have taken a day off to look after them,
And get some rest?” I asked.
“If I did, what would we eat tonight?
How would I pay for my wife’s discharge tomorrow?” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Turn right,” I said
“It’s House Number 153.”
He pulled up at the gate.
We checked the meter. I paid him the due amount.
Then I pulled out a five hundred rupee note
And gave it to him.
He demurred.
“A gift for blessing your new baby,” I said.
A tear glinted in his eye.
He bent down to touch my feet.
I stopped him and asked,
“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”
“No, Maa ji. I must rush. I can do a couple of trips
Before I go to the hospital with food for the family.”
I waved goodbye and rang the doorbell.
My six year-old granddaughter ran out to embrace me.
I thought of a little baby girl,
Waiting to be held by her father,
Perhaps for the first time.
***
WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Reading Nirala
I wondered whether the stone - breaker
On the path of Allahabad
Had changed in all the years
Since the poet wrote about her.
Sadly, the answer
Was, “No.”
I was taught by my mother
To recite this progressive poem
When I was five years old
I am now sixty-five
My mother is no more.
The woman on the construction site
Opposite my apartment building
Whose child sits in the dust
On the roadside verge among bricks
Forces me to ask myself,
“What have I done with my life?
What have we done as a nation?”
***
Thank you, Setu Magazine, for giving space to my poetry.
ReplyDeleteThank you,Setu Magazine, for giving space to my poems .
ReplyDeleteThank you, Setu Magazine, for giving this new platform to my poetry.
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