A Poem by Usha Kishore

New Beginning

I carry my culture on my back –
My life woven with stars, I
travel the world on the wings
of dreams…

My Gods, I carry in a silver trinket
box - a sandalwood Krishna, tiny
bronze statues of Lakshmi,
Saraswati, Ganesh and a tinier
kneeling Hanuman and a
Narmadeshwar Shivalinga that I
sometimes wear around my neck…

My children sleep to the lullabies of
Balamurali Krishna and tap in tune to
Amjad Ali Khan’s sarod strings;
They dye themselves in the colours
of Holi, they light up in a million
Diwali lamps - they are a strange
breed of the East and the West –
a paradoxical challenge to
any Kipling…

There are many of me, spores from
the womb of the same dark mother -
Spores scattered by trade winds,
spores spat out by migratory birds,
spores dispersed by the Gods,
who rule our stars…

Wherever we go, we water the land with
blood, sweat and tears and with fastidious
hands harvest in gold and rainbow gems –
Our lives are a rhapsody in migratory
movements…

We enact the grand drama of living
abroad in style, we are draped in
western robes that flutter in eastern
colour; we speak in many tongues,
but dream in our own -
Inside, we breathe India, we live
India, we die India…

Then - you looked at us with quizzical
eyes, you mimicked our western desi
accents, you smiled at our flawless Sanskrit;
You dubbed us paradesi, mad prodigals
and this, that and the other and totally
neglected us –
But, we hardy sons and daughters of the soil,
We, your siblings, fought in letters of blood,
sweat and tears; we sent messages in clouds
that cried when they got home; we brought
home gifts of Arabian gold and Afghan lapis;
We hung our thoughts on Chinese nets
that flower over the Arabian Sea –
We made new history by singing Hindustani
ragas in Manhattan-
In Trafalgar Square, we danced in tune to
Bhangra beats –
In our hearts, we carry a little India that
puts you to shame…

Now - you recognise us and sing our praises;
You even send us messages of song and
dance on the wings of the wind –
You want to engage your prodigal siblings;
You write new slogans –
Engaging the diaspora!
Now, our motherland that is our heaven
embraces us with open arms –
And we are in tears - this is a new beginning
for us, a new age - the age of the diaspora,
The Indian diaspora!

( More poems by Usha Kishore)

Gandhi


The experiments with truth
turned into slogans.
The philosophy of life
remained stuck
to the blind eyes of statues.
Success remained delimited
to mere definitions.
The soul was taken over
by gross merchandise
of opportunism.

For the establishment of dharrna
war was declared.
For maintaining peace
bustees of dalits were burnt.
With the support
of devious scriptures
truth was asked
to prove itself.
The men of god
were made outcastes.
The lowliest
moved even further away.

There is no one now
in quest of truth;
no one is bothered
about the means any more.
Everyone has his eye
on counterfeit results.
In the profit and loss
of black markets
the last capital of goodness
was squandered away.
In search of new colonies
imperialists marched away.
Awards for peace
were bestowed on war-mongers.

The old pocket watch
cannot overstep
the lines of poverty.
The horrors of picturesque truth
cannot be seen through
the thick pair of spectacles.
The small piece of loin cloth
cannot hide the vulgarity
of limitless power.
The walking stick cannot stop
the aggressive violence
of extremists.

When the clocks fall silent
and their hands move no more,
when history takes leave,
he comes out yet again
from the confines of statues,
movies and anniversaries
and takes another brief stride
towards the raised rifles
of new assassins.

(More poems J.P. DAS)