Jasumati, my black jasmine

whenever you come with the broom and dust-bins

 in the streets, 

you cease to be the black jasmine

grown upon the dark dung-hill

outside the boundaries of our village.

the saffron sun blossoms upon your face like a bindi,

upon your bosom, like a sunflower

and in your heart like a lily.

the dried sparkling honey paste upon your black lips

begins to moisten.

when you stoop to sweep,

the black-berries under your nylon blouse

peep out for the sunny embrace of the earth.

Jasumati, you suddenly become jasmine

again for a moment !

had it been midnight,

the fireflies in search of juicy buds

would have kissed them --

your cups dripping with mahuvabrews !

but vultures wearing scared threads are hovering around,

taking rounds of their holy Ganges

and your untouchable shadow.

instantly you become an idea for a luscious feast :

-  a sexy simile,

-  a hard hug,

- a slap on the bumpy buttock.

you are cornered like an easy prey.

they enjoy the delicious flesh of an untouchable girl.

you moan and become mother,

mother of a bastard.

they button up their trousers

and take a plunge into the holy Ganges

to be pure again.

they defile you, dear Jasumati

like a crow defiles with his dirty beak.

and the kid, like his rapist fathers,

drinks your milk and

pisses upon you,

making you untouchable and outcast again for them :

the black jasmine

grown upon the dark dung-hill

outside the boundaries of our village.

cursing is no good, darling :

your sobs and sighs will not extinguish stars of heaven

that stood still,

your shrill screams will not slice up the moon

that witnessed the act.

the sun of that day

will not may breed more blemishes in his burning heart!

i love you more than ever, dear Jassu,

more than Mother Virginis loved ---

for i  know you have to conceive

many more bastard Christs in your womb,

for you are born as

Mulkraj Anand’s untouchable daughter.

and you know i am helpless and hapless

with the cut-off thumb bleeding since time immemorial :

with no bow, no arrow of my ancestors.

i could fell oaks and break rocks

but I cannot kill these killers,

these culture-clad vultures.

i love you, Jasumati,

more than that Arjuna who loved his stripped-off bride

--with foggy eyes,

swollen throat,

closed fists,

dropped head

and interred legs.

i swear, i never gambled upon you, dear Jassu,

nor my forefathers did anything shameful.

how can we poor untouchacles afford such luxuries?

i love you,and love you more than ever.

for you are more chaste than the Ganges

where holy men wash their bottoms ceremoniously.

I love you Jasumati,

my black jasmine grown upon the dark dung-hill

outside the boundaries of our village.