Bijay Kant Dubey
The Policeman Not Of His Baap - Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey
It is often said that the policeman not of his father, I mean father,
Your father, my father, their father,
But father father,
Who keeps saying,
You do not this, you do not that,
Always tough and tight,
Not loose and simple as mother,
Always giving a tough time to deal with, dispense with,
Old-timer and disciplined.
O, what was I saying, I remember, remember about the policeman,
O, it came to me,
As had forgotten, gone out of mind,
Grew I absent-minded
As swayed I somewhere!
The policeman not of the baap, I mean the father,
The father who gave birth to him,
Who made him into a man
And now he calls he himself a policeman,
A danda-keeping one or the rifle-man,
That I cannot say to you friend,
It is better you go and come
To report it to me!
O, what was I, was I saying to you,
Got disrupted ad and deviated from,
As for the midway question,
Asking me to let me say
And I too, let me say
And both of us said we
But none heard it
And it got misheard, misinterpreted,
Noisy and chaotic!
You saying, let me say, I saying, let me say
And who will it say,
Let us call in a judge to dispense with
As for saying it next,
Whose turn is it to say it before,
Who will hear whom
And let me say it
Without interrupting it!
The policeman not of his baap, I mean the father,
Indian father or English father,
That I cannot, cannot, my friend,
As no English man am I,
No European or American,
I myself have not been to anytime
Then how can I answer you, friend?
O, I was saying about the policeman not of the baap,
I mean not of his father,
Is often said
And the father of the policeman thinking within,
Why did he make him a Bentleman,
Not a gentleman!
As he comes he drunk and talking tough,
Trying to implicate everybody,
Whoever be he,
Talking of laws, crime and criminals and punishment,
Even can jail his father,
So hardy and jarring has he become
In his attitude and
That obeys he not even his father.
Hence, it is said,
It is generally called,
The policeman not of his father,
The rifleman, the lathiman is he,
Not a simple man talking simply,
Speaking the language of guns and barrels,
With the hands always on the trigger
Not at all a good boy, but into a bad boy
Has he turned,
The father is thinking,
As he signed the papers wet-eyed
When there came the call
As for to be appointed
But now calls he himself a policeman.
Now he thinking within
Why did he turn his son into a policeman,
Into a Bentleman
Into a Lantleman
At the time of going to jail
And it is none but his son taking him to jail
As for not giving pension money and distributing lands properly,
Where do the hidden money and assets lie in,
To whom will he give his maximum property?
The mundane father remembering the heavenly father,
The father looking skywards
And again bending the head,
For what fault of his, for what sin of his previous birth,
Is he going to jail,
What karma of his,
What bad did he do
That his good son turned into a bad son
And that he is getting the bhoga of his 'karmafal'?
Just the assurance is with him that his son will get him out of the jail
And its adjacent vicinity,
You worry not, old father,
Tough and conservative,
The son will bail you court,
You just worry not, old father,
Not the modern papa
And coming out from the jail, he will settle the things,
The old scores,
The lands and properties will be divided
Without any fascination for the youngest and and spoilt brother.
The policeman not of his baap, I mean his father,
The khaki khlaf-pantsman,
Doing left and right witha stick or a rifle,
In the parade ground or the police line,
Has forgoten even his family etiquette and morality
And can abuse anyone with license.
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