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The Best Poem Of rajshree trivedi

Saraswati

1970.
The pol housed cows, bulls, sheep, narrow lanes
Running into one another, a few cycles and them.
Out in the khadki breaking the dawn,
All but them make sounds.

Rice husk -‘sish-sash, sish-sash’- in the sam-khali beat
Flinging out of the large winnowing basket,
The small deft wristlets working in rhythm,
Pristine, oblivious of being.

Round cakes - ‘chip-chop, chip-chop’- with hay sticks
Daubing out of the freshly kneaded cow dung,
The large palms waiting for kandhenu
To redeem the bovine race.

Cycle bells jingling down the lanes to the market,
School boys toiling their way to school,
The small wristlets craving for a pen, a slate,
And a trip down the ‘much desired’ way to school.

The large palms forever a stoned Ahalya throws
A sulky pang at the forbidden question
The wristlet flips, ”Can’t I join them? ”
And quietly broods over her reprimand.

2010.
The pol now houses narrow lanes, cows, bulls, cycles,
Scooties, cars, the next gen mobile shops and them
Out of the khadki breaking the dawn
All but them making their sounds.

The fast pacing scooties racing to the malls,
School boys climbing the yellow bus.
The wristlets craving for a paper and a pen
The large palms helplessly reprimanding.

2020.
The pol now houses narrow lanes, cows, bulls, scooties,
Cars, airtime shops, mini-aircrafts and them.
The large palms still reprimanding?

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