dry
the berrylike tears
while
she goes to college early in the morning
wearing
a glass-nylon sari,
pouring
a palmful of palmolene in her tangled hair,
bather
with bug-brand soap.
what
could she do to protect her chastity
molested
by your impudent ramas in the streets ?
how
could she put aside her indigenous individuality ?
- by
changing name ?
- by
changing surname ?
- by
changing gujarati sari bengalee style ?
- by
converting to Christianity ?
- by
changing her desi culture to hippiesm ?
but
alas, history can’t be changed
and
poverty can’t be banished instantly.
she
can’t shut the seasons out of her hut
as
you do in your weatherproof apartments.
it
rains recklessly,
it
scorches ruthlessly
and
the winds are roaring past from all sides
into
her leaking roof and broken mud-walls.
the
smoke from the chimneyless hut
and
the sieving dust from the thatched roof
settle
upon her precious rags.
yes,
it may look strange
the
way she plaits her hair, brown and dry.
uncared
for by her illiterate mother since birth.
her
body is different indeed—
a
frail frame, devoid of milk, cream juice or vitamins.
have
you ever calculated the calories
from
the jowar-loaf and an onion-bulb ?
her
back and dried skin is the heritage of her forefathers
laboring
under the severe sun.
she
is caught up as soon as she tries to
become modern
in
the absence of mod cosmetics.
she
is caught up as soon as she tries to speak phoren
leaving
aside her dear dialect,
alas,
history can’t be changed.
we
will change the future,
we
will change the history of the future.
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