Peasant Songs
1
Peasants stay up the whole night, and from the stalks of paddy separate paddy and birds from each other. In the morning, someone’s storehouse fills up with bags of paddy. And the birds flutter around looking for beak-sized portions of darkness.
2
We have a festival for sowing paddy. On that day we do not sanction any leave applications of honey bees. We spin threads out of the sun. We design a saree of our choice made up of clouds, lightening, winds and festivals.
3
A big farmer in our village committed suicide by drinking pesticide, because he could not pay back his loans. His grandmother cried aloud and went around the village saying whatever happened, happened. But the bottle that used to store old honey for the children’s colds is also gone now.
Bou’s Saree
Bou’s saree is pure magic.
Have you not seen this magic?
From a box emerge
a kaleidoscope of butterflies,
kites with tails, balloons,
fingers cut fresh from the palm,
shards of glass, cracked lips, crackling fires,
and thin, translucent fogs.
When the sun is too strong,
or there is a storm,
bou’s saree opens up and spreads
like an umbrella on one’s head
and turns the season.
On highways when chewing on shards of glass,
one is feeling bored with gods, dreams,
insurance companies, fate,
destiny and lottery tickets,
we hang bou’s saree
as a screen on our doors and windows
and quickly fashion our dream islands;
foams from the seas,
shadows of coconut trees and silences.
Bou’s saree is the fantastic green of kalama tank;
where there are no thorns,
no dew,
when everything is bright and clear;
only her rage in the forest
with her stripes of yellow and black,
and mad steps and madder roars,
when we won’t get our rightful share
of the moon or arisa pitha.
In bou’s eyes these days
I see the helplessness of a magician
who has to ask for pennies
after having produced a shower of gold coins
from the air.
I have not been able to ask her to tell me
whether she has sought and lost in the last spring
the feel and the excitements
of someone dear.
But bou’s saree is still pure magic.
Mirror
Wash your face off the mirror.
The scene on the other side will change.
On this side, are hills of sand.
On the other side, are fields of paddy,
and a blue river.
You wanted to hear a song?
Come, I’ll take you to a country without mirrors.
Then, every scene will sing a song.
And
you yourself will turn
into a scene singing a song.
