Rioting communities by Dileep Jhaveri

From Khandit Kaand Poems:

Written after demolition of Babri Masjid 1992

And Gujarat riots 2002.

Launderer

Someone, go fetch a launderer

There are stains all over

We gathered waters from every eye

But fell short

We thought that

Dipping all in a single colour

One can dye everything red

In the end the blood was not enough

Again, please, someone go find a launderer launderer launderer

It the crowds there are

Carpenters without hands

Potters without thumbs

Blacksmiths with broken arms

Porters with wrenched necks

Legless farmers

Wood cutters are there but no axe

Masons are there but no bricks

Painters are there but no walls

From the fields one cannot pick even a fistful of seeds to swear

From the sky let alone a mizzle even lightening does not fall

Parched palms are uprooted, no palm beer to drown the base hunger.

Only a leafless berry tree stands alone on the desolate periphery

For covering its nakedness there are no thorns even.

Still to clear the soiled air

To wash it clean

Somebody, go, fetch a launderer

Translated by The Poet

Whose Father's Son

The piss jet from my snipped pipe would reach farther

than any of my school mates',

When my father used to return from the shift in oil mill

he would stop at Chorasia's paan-shop

and his spit jet would stop short by an inch

from the doorstep of Badaru's glassware shop.

Our neighbour Narabada aunty would be collecting the dresses of her half a dozen offspring from the clothesline.

She would notice him entering the tenement

and would slyly whisper.

'The prince of perfume arrives'

Listening to this my sharp eared mother's elbow would scorch

by the hot pan while turning rotis.

Whistling merrily my pop would hang his shirt on a hook

and enquire 'What did the sheep do in the school pen,

bleat, shit or lay eggs like big zeros ?’

Switching the radio on, he would snap his fingers in tune with the music.

The sound of his snapping fingers was louder than a clap.

Even if the curry lacked a pinch of salt

or if the vegetables had a pinch of pepper in excess

my father would polish off the plate with relish.

Scooping the leftovers with loud clanks

my mother, eating the last, would whine

'He doesn't bother to blame even when I blunder!’

My mother tied talismans observed fast made pilgrimages.

She would hug me close or occasionally hurt me,

She would stop talking to me or suddenly tickle me.

But I was not blessed with either a brother or a sister.

My pop’s voice rang loudest in singing hymns to Shiva,

But be lost his oil mill job.

and while coping with my unfinished school

and doing sundry jobs

a lot remained lacking in my life.

But my father's flamboyance was undaunted.

Being the leader of tenants' association

he would make daily rounds of municipality

and blithely snapping his fingers

he would harry the glass vendor

with long stream of spittle from Chorasia’s shop.

One day some people pitched stones on the glass shop.

And set it ablaze.

My dad got burnt while rescuing Badaru.

His snapping fingers shriveled along with the skin of half of his body.

Yet instead of being snuffed in a snap.

he dragged his self down a long lingering life.

And ended bankrupting me in return.

Returning from the crematorium

the dour faced priest revealed the secret.

That I was an adopted son.

Translated by The Poet

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Rioting communities by Dileep Jhaveri