Keshav Meshram
In Our Colony
In our colony
The postman gets
bamboozled
Teachings get
confused
Civilization
stumbles
The sun- even he
is darkened.
Our houses stand
Like footprints of
cattle in the mud.
In the midst of it
all is a soul
Eager to swim
along the current.
Our colony-
A roaring, foaming
sea
Of black bodies
and black hair,
Wearing away in
the moulds of tradition
Sinking in the
soil.
The people of this
place-
Carrying the loads
of soft cotton on their shoulders,
Their hands rough
but weak
The bangles
jingling with the crooked sky
The kids
perspiring all over in sweltering heat.
Some working on
the open trucks
Their veins
swollen-eyes half-closed
Our colony-
drowned in the pegs of ‘country wine,
Subsisting on the
hot chillied pieces of meat-
Floating in the
spicy, hot gravy
Living half-fed
despite working full hours
Yet surveying
closely in the mellow light of
The candle the
future of each coming new day.
Our colony
Gets stirred on
hearing the footsteps
Of the postman.
The postman-
He is simply
harassed
In deciphering the
name and address
Scribbled out
illegibly in purple
Got by dipping
the tip of the copying pencil in saliva
The postman
frustrated in searching Renu Narayan
Surrounded by
naked guides
Groaning in agony
as though hit on the knee
He keeps on
wandering mutely in search of Renu
Narayan
Bending and
moving through mud and marsh
Sweating in the
clumsy livery.
The search is
over.
‘Renu’s granny has
expired.’
The colony
grapples with the message
Like an eagle pouncing
upon its prey.
In our colony-
Reforms get
confused
Paths are bruised,
schemes stumble
Now- only now have
boys started learning.
They write poems-
stories- Indian literature
The axes of words
fall upon the trees of tradition,
The warm,
experienced hailstones
Of strange realities rain
On the dreams of
literature
Once again begin
The rounds of the
police and the postman
Darkness is
sizzling swallowing the sun
In our colony the postman is
Bamboozled – even
now.
Supar poem sir....
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