Gajanan And The War Poem by Susanta Pattnayak

Gajanan wakes before the sun,
When Bhubaneswar still dreams in grey,
He washes rice in silent bowls,
And readies life for one more day.

What does he know of distant wars?
Of borders drawn in lines of fire?
He knows the weight of earthen pots,
And hunger's quiet, patient pyre.

His wife, with hands both worn and warm,
Soaks lentils in a tender hush,
Whispers love into every stir,
Into each careful, gentle crush.

She boils the potatoes till they yield,
Stirs spices till the oil turns red,
The aludum breathes her silent songs,
Of hope, of fear, of daily bread.

Curd flows thick like a mother's grace
Over donuts soft and white,
Chutney sings of tamarind dreams,
In flavors bold, in colors bright.

Their dahivada, a humble feast,
Carries a fame they never sought,
From lanes nearby to roads afar,
People come for what they've wrought.

And in the evening's amber light,
Their children laugh and lend a hand,
Small fingers learning ancient truths—
That love is work, and work is stand.

But what does Gajanan know of war?
Of men who speak in tongues of might?
He only knows his country's soil,
And bows to it in silent right.

He loves his land in simple ways—
In feeding those who come his way,
Yet knows not why the skies grow tense,
Or why the markets fall to grey.

Seven days now, the stall is closed,
No steam has kissed the morning air,
No eager crowd, no clinking coins,
Just silence hanging everywhere.

His savings shrink like a dying flame,
Each note a worry, each coin a sigh,
Money meant for school and books,
Now counting days they must get by.

The gas he needs has slipped away,
Locked behind fear and rising cost,
Black markets whisper cruel demands,
And every bargain feels like loss.

Gajanan counts what he has left—
Not in rupees, but in breaths of time,
In meals that thin, in children's eyes,
That ask no questions, yet still climb.

His family now lives day to day,
Measuring life in numbers bare—
Days since the war,
Days till it ends,
Days till there is nothing to spare.

And in his heart, a quiet plea,
Not loud, not angry, not even heard— Just let me cook, just let me feed,
Let life return to what it was, undisturbed.

For what is war to a man like him?
A distant fire that burns his bread,
A storm that steals his children's dreams,
Yet leaves no ashes where it spread.

Gajanan does not ask for peace in words,
He does not march, nor does he cry—
He only waits beside cold pots,
Watching his small, honest world run dry.


Susanta Pattnayak