A Darumen’s Party On The Eve Of The New Year (Daru Piyo (Drink) And Celebrate It) Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

Daru, daru, daru,
a daruman’s party
on the eve of the new year.

Daru, daru, daru,
a daruman’s party is the new year
coming.

The drunkards, I mean piyakkads in rustic and jocular Hindi,
have gathered in
and the pavement people selling.

Daru, daru, daru,
no life without daru,
they not taking daru, but daru them.

Daru is all, life is not,
family too not, the house too left out
in search of pleasure through intoxicant things.

Foreign liquor they may somehow sometimes,
for the special occasion and if not possible,
the local country liquor will do it.

I mean desi daru, native wine, local wine,
food is not in the stomach,
but daru is.

When unable to get this daru too, he taking
bhang, hemlock paste,
smoking ganja, marijuana through an earthenware.

Taking toddy, palm juice, soured and stale
if unable to purchase mahua blooms and molasses brewed wine,
stale and rotten boiled rice brewed stuff.

Daru, daru, daru, only daru,
dying for it,
hunger has lessened in the poor man’s stomach.

Food is not in the addict’s stomach,
can’t live without daru
and daru his life.

The daruman has not seen
his face in the mirror, swollen-swollen,
the liver functioning not well, already cautioned.

But still he taking, taking a risk,
making a tryst with his destiny,
writing The Drunkards’ Discovery of India and My Experiments With Drinking.

One who sells too is a daruman, sells and takes, unable to rein in,
one who takes too is a daruman,
both of them daruwallahs, keeping and taking.