A room I saw
where the babu of poverty had been a frequent visitor
few walls were stark naked as if they never wore anything
and a few were shedding away the color they were draped in
The room had nothing in it
no furniture, nothing much to address as wearable,
a small blanket was there with dust marks and small holes
which seemed at least two decades old
and must've at some point been the food of rats roaming around
As I looked around I found
a few broken, rusted kitchenware kept in a corner,
a clay pot to store water which was dripping from the roof
so that for drinking it can be used
The room was like a cell allotted to criminals
hardly you can find an entrance for the air
the smoke coming out of the beedi that the man
in lungi was inhaling was all it had to offer....
He was coughing, spitting in the broken bucket he had
there was no sign of sunshine even when it was 12 at noon on my watch,
food looked like a distant visitor to his house
it seemed, it liked the dustbin of a rich more than the stomach of a poor
His eyes told me a story
a story that I can never forget, when my eyes met his
of broken bodies and shattered dreams
of a frustrated soul and fractured beliefs
I could easily sense his disbelief in Gods
not a single image of idol was there in the entire room
Bhagavad Gita and Quraan too were invisible to my eyes
maybe because God didn't come to save his family when corruption ate it alive?
It was then when Kareem ran in saying
'Chacha jaan, MLA sahab has come to our slum...'
But no, he didn't move an inch
instead, he just blabbered something in muffled voice
and then lit another beedi up,
it seemed as if he knew all the tactics of these white dacoits...
He was all alone now
with wrinkled face and hands that trembled,
no longer could he pull a rickshaw or clean a garden,
what he could only do is to count the beads of the rosary of death...
Written by Sutputra Radheye
I appreciate the depth of your observation with regard to the destitute people and the conditions which become synonymous to their lives. Thanks a lot for such a thought provoking poem. the smoke coming out of the beedi that the man in lungi was inhaling there was no sign of sunshine even when it was 12 at noon on my watch, it seemed, it liked the dustbin of a rich more than the stomach of a poor
Through the poem we can see the woes of many poor people in the our slums.Realistic.Nicely done.
babu of poverty had been a frequent visitor stark naked as if they never wore anything a small blanket with dust marks and small holes, a few broken, rusted kitchenware the smoke of the beedi, his lungi, broken bodies and shattered dreams Bhagavad Gita and Quraan wrinkled face and hands that trembled, counting the beads of the rosary of death... a heart rending picture of poverty, sufferiing.... it touched my heart dear poetess. great description and the power of observation.... a great talent...... a great poetess you are. please write about all injustices in our society. i always believe that poets have a divine call. your call is to raise the voice against social injustice........ thank you. naturally i give u a big 100
Wonderful Narration of Poverty.. expressed to the tiniest points. Thank you for sharing! ! 10++!
He was all alone now with wrinkled face and hands that trembled, no longer could he pull a rickshaw or clean a garden, what he could only do is to count the beads of the rosary of death... terriible and heart rending scenes you have portrayed here dear poetes.. poverty is the greatest evil........ we poets should a lot to move people to give to the poor through our writitngs.. tony
An awesome write. You have sketched natural figure of the society. No more to say they have understood very well that they are cheating the public at every inch. Thanks for invitation. Keep writing. Full marks.
Wow! An excellent poem on the poverty of India, the depravity given to the people by corrupt politicians. When visiting India I saw the unequality between rich and poor. Traveling on a train for 2 1/2 days seeing the awesome and beautiful homes of the rich, then the grass huts with little or nothing in them, children barely if even clothed, begging for food. It made me cry, I was asked why I was crying, and I said, because this is so wrong, it shouldn't be happening in this, the 21st century. This poem of yours has definitely struck a chord within me, bringing back the stark reality of the poverty there and the rich doing nothing at all many times, except maybe buying fireworks for the celebrations that even the poor attended. Your poetry is very illuminating, please continue writing about the injustice, poverty and inequality in lives of many in India. Hopefully, people will wake up and realize that it takes a village to raise a child, but also to end poverty. Thank you for sharing so honestly, Sutputra. RoseAnn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great imaginative and realistic work, dear. Thanks