The Corn-seller Lady
When you come to Nirjuli
Via Doimukh side,
There is bridge on River Dikrong
Which is shallow and wide.
The highway pass through it.
And its roadside,
Sits a lady corn seller.
Not big but a small dealer.
She has a kid with her,
Whose age I forgot to bother
About and ask as if it Doesn’t matter.
From the plains of Assam,
She brings her corns
And roast it upon coal fire
Using some tongs.
I did bother, however,
To ask it to her,
How much she makes it
In a day?
Is it enough for her bills
To pay ?
She makes 200 rupees,
If she is able to sell
Of her bosta, every good piece.
If it comes out to be bit
Small or tiny.
Or it is ruined by pest
Or isn’t that grainy
Then she will suffer
For sure, an absolute Loss.
Life is hard for her.
I told you that
She had some small kids.
She sends one to school,
Others she breastfeed.
Every evening, when
Her husband comes
Under the influence of alcohol,
He imprints her body
With the henna of burning coal.
Life is hard for her
And her story seems gross.
Yet I have anything to do it,
I have bridge to cross.
A Poem of a Woman
My teacher asked me to pen
Down a poem for woman.
I tried and I thought
But words came not
I couldn’t write a line
From this pen of mine.
We men have talked for long on their behalf
Those who comprises of the one half
Of the world population
Without bothering about condition
For them we oft speak
Yet never ever we seek
In our arrogance, arising out of ignorance
Their permission.
Not for a brief singular moment
We bothered about their consent.
In our convos, they were present
Yet they were equally absent.
I don’t know what’s it mean
For I have never been
In that particular aweful situation
When you have to bear someone’s aggression
I can’t think of that life of monotony
Or have a dread of polygamy.
I don’t know why someone maintains silence
I don’t understand why someone endure abuse
Even when there’s alter life to choose ?
How can I be expected to write
When I have never been in that plight ?
When they walk out of union of violence
How can I lecture them about their rights,
When I have never fought their fights ?
I now worry,
That I have to forego
A part of my masculine ego
Beg you sorry.
I tried but I can’t write
A poem from my own pen
Mother, sisters, comrades, it’s your fight
And it should be a poem of a woman
And it should be the poem for the women
And it should be a poem from the woman.