God is slumbering
The venerated God is sleeping.
in ten pegs’ zizz, the venerated
God is slumbering.
The poor devotee who donated
iron rods and cement for the
playhouse of the temple
under construction is in jail.
He needs to be released
instantaneously with a clean chit.
The necromancer who offered
the warm blood by throttling a
virgin’s head needs to be appointed
as principal of the local college.
The saviour who shattered
the lotus grove needs to be
facilitated in a huge crowd with
lakhs of lotus garlands and mementoes.
Blood pressure is quite common
can God sleep in peace
under lots of pressure? Stop the
hymn, fools, cease the prayer!
If he’s awakened by chance you’d
be burnt off, flown off and
drowned off like stubbles.
Hurry and go away putting the
flowers and coconut there
whatever offering you’ve brought;
don’t blow the conch, fool, stop the
bell and double-headed drum!
And Don’t Show Us The Sky
It’s been a week now no food in the stomach,
don’t show us the sky, the rainbow is
just like an oasis in front of hunger.
As you say there’s neither hunger nor scream
in the sky is an utter lie.
Do you watch how the bird which was
flying high a moment before has flung down
the land frantically for an insect?
There’s nothing except the land that
germinates grass, sand mushrooms, flowers,
ragi, mahua and fish.
There’s nothing except land where a shelter
or a city can be built. Woe unto you that you
glorify the sky while eating from the land
saying there’s neither dust nor dirt in the sky
but it’s all the charm.
You’ve seen filth on the land as flies do
whereas we’ve seen greenery on it. Do you
know why? You’ve never loved the land.
How could you? Like day and night, you’ve
plotted to snatch that gold by hook or crook
that we’ve harvested at the cost of our blood.
To wear golden shoes and golden
cross-thread, you’ve only robbed our food.
It’s been a week now we’ve not eaten
anything, don’t sing a lullaby to us
no, no, don’t show us the sky.
If you think that you’d let us sleep
to your lullaby, it’s a blunder.
The lava of hunger never ceases
in a lullaby; for your own good shut up,
get lost from here, go away and run.
If you play a game, bear in mind
hungry people are just like horrific tigers!
Television
There someone splashes the acid on the face
of an unwilled dream.
Someone putting the gun on the shoulder of
God threatens to sign the file.
Someone flames sweet poison from the tanpura.
Someone sells glitzy brands in the shopping mall.
There someone doles out colourful tears in the
pandal of a mass meeting. Someone cleanses
the mud of his shoes on the canvas.
While stepping out there someone
tries to measure his own shadow.
In panic, surprise and suspicion, children
keep watching the screen of the television!
Kalahandi
Having not owned, wearing an over-sewed sari
I was laying in a corner of my shanty.
The person who dragged me from my shanty
to the middle of the village market
who poked into the eyes of the spectators
and declared that I was naked
was called a self-styled journo, he
owns a double-storey duplex in the capital.
Who pursued the reasons for my being naked
in the gluttonous books, who researched to find out
the percentile of sugar and salt in my tears
was called a researcher
who tamed his belly in the fellowship
of the university grant commission.
The person who screamed pages of tears
in the pain of my being naked, coined words
to be called as a poet and received felicitation,
memento and honour in the five-star hotel.
The person who roared and threatened
to cut the hands off of the person who was the
reason of my nakedness bowed at every
crossroads to weave me a sari in his own hands
to be called as a benevolent leader and
received the crown and throne.
Thenceforth, I’ve been standing here in the middle
of the market wearing an over-sewed sari; hanging
my head down, blind and dumb: Kalahandi.
(Akhil Nayak (1970-2021) was a professor of Odia at Kalahandi University and an acclaimed Dalit writer. He had six collections of poetry, Gadhuabela, Gulikhati, Dhobapharaphara, Dheek, Abeeja and Kshetapurana and a novel, Bheda, to his credit. Pitambar Naik reads/edits Mud Season Review and Minute Magazine. His book of poetry, The Anatomy of Solitude, has been published by Hawakal)
