my rain

who knows,

does He feel gratified by the holy fire of the yagya

as do  some corrupt deities of heaven

or by the dance of naked virgins yoked to the plough

as do some landlords of this Earth.

but when it really rains,

they slip under the umbrella

or close the glasses of their cars quickly.

or enjoy the rainbow tamasha

floating coloured  paper-boatsin the streams.

the rain-god strikes his blessings on me

with all his vengeful might,

with thunder-storm and lightning.

like an old camel fatigued with unbearable burden,
my hut collapses.

and becoming a stream of soil
flows  into Gordhan Mukhi's farm-pond.

the pond that waters his fertile farms.

the Megh-god of rains has become mad :

my Kaniyo has gone to graze village cattle

at the banks of Jamuna.

my Bhani is washing her petticoat in the Bhadarva stream,
draping in turn the sari she got as gift

from a high-caste corpse.  

i remember and take solace in the children story :

the God made the pigeon pluck a peepal leaf

to rescue the drowning ant.

i too had faith that they would come
as they had come to welcome the rain-god,

as they had come,

with food packets and water bottles,

to save their caste brethren from floods.

but they were praying the rain god for more and more:

our charmkunds,the tanning-pits overflowed

with their yajnakunds, the  holy fire-pits

they hoarded  the harvest to their heart's content
in their rivers and lakes.

some one filled  his water-parks

some one his 14th floor swimming pool  

some one filled his fishponds full

some one watered his paddy fields

someone sold filling Him in water-pouches

who knows

in whose field my part of God is raining

who knows

who is harvesting my part of crops

who knows

whether the clouds had burst upon the trees

that i had planted
or to water the fistful of grains

i had scattered in the hope to fight the famine  

who knows?