Thampi Jayasingh ---5 poems
What makes this
Lonely Dravidian tea picker
To pour out her heart,
As the odor of pesticides
Cut through the lungs,
As the hard labored leaves
Are made high-tech currencies
In the global markets?
1. Waves won’t Die
When he was a child,
He put a tiny stone
Into a silent pond,
That made ripples,
And still come in his dreams.
In the green paddy fields,
He found waves in childhood,
But in their greediness,
They fed with pesticides,
And killed the earth.
Years later, he found
Only a green less desert,
But still waves were there,
That time, only heat waves.
He watched -later in life-
A roaring ocean kisses the shore
With its everlasting waves.
Waves made further waves
Not only of water but of sound:
Sound of the roar,
Sound of the lively speech
Of the fisher folk,
Sound of the little kingfishers.
His first love
With her jasmine fragrance
Made a wave in his heart.
The first look of a beggar,
An injustice done, the taste of God
And all made in him waves.
Months and years passed,
But still in silent nights,
He is caught, moved and shaped
By all these waves.
Waves won’t die...
2. The Lonely Tea Picker
The same red sun
Spreads his light
Through the tall pine trees,
The same silver clouds
Glitter and move towards the mounts,
The cool armies of ghost like mist
Come out of the greenish tea plants.
Now I hear a mild sweet voice
Reverberating in the
Green clothed valleys,
That cannot soothe
The bleeding hearts!
What makes this
Lonely Dravidian tea picker
To pour out her heart,
As the odor of pesticides
Cut through the lungs,
As the hard labored leaves
Are made high-tech currencies
In the global markets?
What brings this divine voice
Through the cropped tea plants?
Is it the tragic stories
Of long done wars?
Is it the pain of
Drought or flood or famine?
Or is it the tragedy of burning stomachs
And dying hopes everyday?
The bending estate woman
With a tea basket on her back,
And her divine warbling,
That couldn’t soothe tired laborers
Made an eternal impression
In my heart.
I gently passed, not to meditate,
But to burst out.
3. Her Marble Legs
Every move of her marble legs
Made millions to fly in dreams:
More than the winking of her eyes
The eyes of cameras flashed,
Capturing her every
Physiological parts;
Perhaps to magnify,
Touch, retouch and print
In every possible angles,
At last only to sell.
While entering into
Human seas,
Her minute sighs, smiles,
Blushes and all sexual moves
Were admired with zealous and jealous.
Everyone tried nearing,
Touching and kissing her:
She was a touch so near
But miles far away,
And her untouched virgin heart
Was a world far away.
Oh she knew that all these were
Until her skin got a shrink,
Until these fickle minds
Turned to another pair of silky legs,
When tears rolled down secretly
Without camera flashes.
4 The Train I Travel
The train I travel is moving.
I see uncountable heads:
Black and white;
Chubby and bonny-
Smiling, sleeping, thinking-
All are human heads.
Then why there are glasses
Only in some bogies?
Why there are classes,
First, second and third?
I hear horrendous sound
Peculiar only to a train:
The sound of the clanging of iron,
The sound of machine;
Oh! Machine, which made
All the differences.
There is a stop- a station-
Again the rush, the pull, the race,
The sound of the machine
Spread through the station.
Perhaps they sing, listen,
Sleep, swallow and enjoy;
The blessed classes.
But who cares,
There are human insects
Surviving in the third class!
5. In My Country
In my country there are
People of two categories:
Some are begotten
And the others are down-trodden.
But like the creamy layer
Between chubby buns
There is another group
Which is always forgotten.
Among the hectic morning activities
While rumbling sound of preparations
Come from every house,
They too make their presence felt
By scrapping their old coconut shells.
When the begotten diet to be fit,
And the down-trodden fast to pray,
Only this down-trodden pray to fast.
With rented clothes
And gilted ornaments
And fragmented hearts
They usually go to the
Marriage functions
Where the high class
Occupy the front seats
With much glamour and glitter,
And the low class simply pass
Enjoying the feast.
When all stand in a queue
In front of a ration shop
And come home sack full
They loiter around a supper market
And stealthily abscond
With empty bags.
In my growing country
There are still people living,
Crushed between people
Who are always forgotten.