THE CRUSHER
Like a sugar-cane vendor
crushing a bunch of sugar-cane
in his machine,
They squeezed us,
juice extracted,
handed over it on a platter
to the tourists.
"Nice, sweet, very sweet"-
Praised they in chorus
"It's our blood and sweat sirs",
We lamented in exhaustion.
Our cries,
Cries in the wilderness.
THE BEAST
The roar of the beast
terrifies us,
All voices get drowned in its roar,
The shape of the beast,
set off ripples down our spines,
Gigantic, with a wide,
sharp tongue,
Horrifies us.
The sight of the beast,
running towards us
in thirst and hunger,
baring its tongue,
disarms us, forces us
to surrender meekly,
without even a whimper,
followed by a line
of little beasts.
With its sharp, wide, tongue,
lifts our tents
within seconds,
and fill the belly of little beasts.
Our helpless cries, always cries in the wilderness.
DREAMS NIPPED IN BUD
They turn benign once in a while,
little students in uniforms,
followed by their masters,
with sympathies abound,
visit us.
They serve us sumptuous feasts,
pat on our backs,
our children watch them
with blank eyes, emaciated
they are, skinny they are,
Eat everything greedily
sumptuous feasts,
sweets following,
greedily, yes greedily.
Dreams they must have had
wings of ambitions they must had,
"Wings of fire" they must have had,
No let-up, though.
Their cries, like cries in the wilderness.
INDIAN WOMAN
One day we saw a young woman,
In her torn salwar and kameez,
in dishevelled hair.
Her face bruised and lips bleeding
Entering a police-station.
Crying she was.
Half an hour gone.
We saw her returning to the crowded city street,
Her expression stony,
Pause.
Like a mid-air explosion
a sudden impulse,
in a fit of rage and frustration,
She stripped herself off-
her salwar, kameez and shawl
In her bra and *******
talking loudly to herself,
gesturing wildly
frightening sight it was
her entire body too bleeding,
Down the roads she walked
swiftly to nowhere,
a visual feast to the passers by,
and commuters,
All in good humour.
Media men with their cameras followed her,
In a hurry to capture the sight,
without even leaving the minutest details,
the channels flashed the entire sight repeatedly,
The plight of an Indian woman,
the sight an eloquent one
Her cries like cries in the wilderness.
THE VICTIM
One day,
In the broad-daylight,
While city was reeling under
sweltering heat,
A few khaki-wallahs,
Reached our colony,
In a jeep.
Went on a hunt,
to each tent,
fished out a youth,
Bholaram, his name,
the red eyed demons,
Beat him, kicked him around,
punched him,
Rained thundering blows on him,
And reducing him to pulp,
Threw him into the vehicle,
And drove him away.
His parents, wife,
children screamed helplessly
beating their chests
Nothing heard of him
since then.
Their cries like cries in the wilderness.
