Long long ago, during the mid 1980s, when I was a student, I saw a marriage party motoring its way on the road in all its splendour. No, it was not the splendour that caught my eye, nor are such baraats rare sights. But what touched my heart is that, ahead of the baratis, a mother was holding a heavy hand-held light (not a lantern mind you, but something that looks like a chandelier, and many such 'chandeliers' were held by others and all these were powered by a generator) while carrying an infant bound across her shoulder. While it was a pleasure and an occasion to celebrate for the baratis and to display their riches, it was a struggle for existence for the mother. And this triggered a melancholic feeling in me and I versified it.
The Mother
There goes an infant's cry
high into the infinite sky.
The affection and love of his mother
and warmth in her hands, he longs for
But the poor widowed mother, helplessly
is toiling far from him in a quarry
drenched totally under the dark sky.
The warm and affectionate hands
are toiling in the hard slippery rocks.
The child's cry resonates in her ears.
The beast-like supervisor, sat
on the edge of the quarry,
observing the workers watchfully
toiling their blood and sweat.
His heart is harder than the rocks
The child in the little hut
of the small hamlet
on the river bank is still crying
The heavens kept on pouring
and floods flashed
the levels in the river
rose hour by hour
And neither the little hut
nor the small hamlet
could resist the river
as the rain persisted
By the time she finished her toil,
like the water in the river
rose anxiety in her
As a spate they rose
No longer the mother could stand.
She ran across the quarry,
unmindful of the sharp slippery
stones, cutting her feet.
She ran across the streets,
unmindful of her bleeding feet.
She ran towards the river,
unmindful of the spate
and jumped into it
daring all hardships,
forgetting all labour
she did in the quarry.
The constant rise in the river
could prove no barricade to her.
Her child is endangered
on the other side.
The river mauled the hut
along with the child, before
before she could reach the hut.
Her heart broke like
the quarry rock.
An unabated spate of fate,
further sang her swansong,
taking her into its fathomless
whirlpool, before she
could cry in grief.
What prompted you to write so melancholic a verse was the immediate poser from my colleague on reading this piece in verse. The baraat scene, of course, was so poignant as to force me to pen down such a tragedy.
The Mother
There goes an infant's cry
high into the infinite sky.
The affection and love of his mother
and warmth in her hands, he longs for
But the poor widowed mother, helplessly
is toiling far from him in a quarry
drenched totally under the dark sky.
The warm and affectionate hands
are toiling in the hard slippery rocks.
The child's cry resonates in her ears.
The beast-like supervisor, sat
on the edge of the quarry,
observing the workers watchfully
toiling their blood and sweat.
His heart is harder than the rocks
The child in the little hut
of the small hamlet
on the river bank is still crying
The heavens kept on pouring
and floods flashed
the levels in the river
rose hour by hour
And neither the little hut
nor the small hamlet
could resist the river
as the rain persisted
By the time she finished her toil,
like the water in the river
rose anxiety in her
As a spate they rose
No longer the mother could stand.
She ran across the quarry,
unmindful of the sharp slippery
stones, cutting her feet.
She ran across the streets,
unmindful of her bleeding feet.
She ran towards the river,
unmindful of the spate
and jumped into it
daring all hardships,
forgetting all labour
she did in the quarry.
The constant rise in the river
could prove no barricade to her.
Her child is endangered
on the other side.
The river mauled the hut
along with the child, before
before she could reach the hut.
Her heart broke like
the quarry rock.
An unabated spate of fate,
further sang her swansong,
taking her into its fathomless
whirlpool, before she
could cry in grief.
What prompted you to write so melancholic a verse was the immediate poser from my colleague on reading this piece in verse. The baraat scene, of course, was so poignant as to force me to pen down such a tragedy.
very touchy!
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