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| Source: http://www.brambedkar.in/ |
(1)
Mother’s Saat
My mother lived
in the railway colony
of Surat city.
She got married and
came to live
in the village of Selamba.
My mother saw
Grand-mother sitting
in the shop
everyday.
She learnt
to use katiyar, amboor,
raapi, saat,
and the nails
one day.
Since then,
I hear the noise
of saat striking
the tiny dark nails
in the hard leather chappals
like the jolts
of an earthquake.
The more I age
the more the nails pierce
into my soul.
I ask my mother
to continue her saat
no more.
But she is
stubborn
not to stop it
anymore.
I ask my mother
Why?
My mother passes me
a smile
of victory
which is lost
in the history
of love, labour and life.
Note: saat (an iron hammer in round vertical shape), katiyar (a needle to sew the broken part back to the slipper), amboor (nail clipper) raapi (a cutter)
(2)
Ramai
Learn how to love
from Ramai.
She met
Baba saheb under
a raining sky.
Since then,
To Baba saheb
She truly stood by.
Both faced
the challenge of sky.
Both pained
seeing the fall
of the womb.
Both struggled
to ensure the seasons
of humanity bloom.
Note: Baba saheb (Dr. B.R. Ambedkar), Ramai (the wife of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar and mother of the oppressed of caste)
(3)
The Odour
I did not see my mother at first.
I had felt the odour
near her breasts.
A new born,
I grew up
on her milk and left
for the city
where I shared the colours
with the upper-caste friends.
The colours had obscured
the taste of milk
I had sucked
on the breasts
like a blossom of the breeze.
But the long seated odour
always beckon me.
Once,
I went home back
in the village and
heard what
Mr. Bhanu Luhar
had reported:
“your mother tried
to arrange the chappals
on the iron rod
in the foot-wear shop.
Unable to take her hands
to the uneven heights
She fell off
the stand.”
The glass of my eyes are
shattered
with the memory
of imaginary fall
Though influenced by the colours
of city,
I come back
to my self-consciousness
in angst
again and again.
(4)
The Taste of Roti
Both Ratilal and
Motilal had melted
the cow fat
in a tomb yard
of the village.
They survived
against starvation and
protected their sister, Shanti
from the upper-castes.
They heard
they were
the reserved castes.
They day
they became officers
they fed roti
to their posterity.
They did not know
the roti would
swallow the past
in the love
of taste.
Today,
the posterity roam
in the city
clueless
of identity
the ancestors shared.
(5)
A Loss of Silver Bangles
Mother sold
the grand-mother’s silver bangles
to the gold-smith
of Selamba.
The eclipse
of identity
She herself had
experienced.
But she failed
to grasp it.
Mother was compelled
to imitate the upper-caste norms.
She was restless
to make money and
feed her children
a future bereft
of her indigenous culture
until she saw
her children writing
the songs
of revolt.
(6)
Dalit Mothers
All struggle
in the search of streams.
The Dalit mothers
store morsels
of hope
in the language
of dreams.
They have wept, laughed
and danced
with the mothers
of the water, the forest and
the earth
of mankind.
They share
common dreams
in the indigenous stream.
They embody
a culture
evolving from the toil
of day and night.
They represent
a path
moving to the light.
