Of My Town And Men I Sing Poem by Ramesh Iyengar

I am sure the best place on earth is my town.
You may not agree with me.
I utter the truth.
Big cities are so polluted. So crowded. So congested.
Men rush with madness.
Fly in petrol-vehicles. Eat fast food.
They spare no time for family or friends.
Get stress and tension. Become truly mad.
Scream and die. R. I. P.

My town people are sweet. Wonderful creatures.
Innocent, helping, rural characters……. Bear no evil.

Our town got life long back.
When kings ruled and queens retired in harems.
Rani Mangamma visited our town centuries ago.
Worshipped the deity in Hindu temple.
Donated gold and silver and diamonds and lands.
We took the lands only.
We knew how to honour her.
We carved her in a stone statue and saluted her.
Later, went back to till those lands for crops.
We remembered the kings and queens who guarded us.
And named our sons and daughters after them.

Politics entered into town.
A hundred flags flew in the sky.
A thousand men marched in processions.
Few lacs spent in elections and wall posters.
We quarrelled on politics and fought.

We sat in tea-stalls and chatted.
We spread rumours about movie-actors,
felt excited, happily contented.

Yet, I admire my little town.
Its dusty streets and old-buildings.
Green emerald paddy fields.
The age old, vegetable market built by an Englishman.
The mittaiwallah shops and street-hawkers.
Musalmans who repair locks and tools.
Old village women selling the produce of lands.
The fading light on rainy afternoons.
Its silence in pitch-dark late night.
The winding streets lit by municipality lamps.

I feel I should write an epic on my town.