Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
Five hundred a month means sixteen or seventeen per day
above all, the more temples we’ve got the more trauma we’ve,
the more gods we’ve got the more grimace we have.
Why is this life for? Sometimes, I feel, then my son who
is a coolie in a nearby godown, calls me, mother
I feel as if his father is calling, who went to Andhra Pradesh
twelve years ago and never returned again.
The Marwadi, his wife and three sons wouldn’t be awake
from morning 7 a. m. to evening 8 p. m. I lift utensils
I fill the tank and mop the floor oozing out my blood,
and sweat; in the afternoon whether or not we eat
the master roars, while repaying the loan taken by his father,
my son could never go to school.
With all that—throw the garbage, wash the vehicle
and keep mum when the master’s eldest son squeezes
my forty-year-old body in the dark.
The tape recorder, the television, the fan and the vehicle run
and stop, but I alone keep running, nonstop and unwearied.
Note:
Paiti is work done by a domestic help
Marwadi a business caste
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