by Ashok Niyogi
Author note : The autumn festival of the Mother Goddess, Durga Puja, is celebrated with great pomp, more in social than spiritual exuberance. In India, it often coincides with harvesting the Kharif crop and an annual bonus for industrial workers; the poor are fleetingly ‘cash-rich’.
The Kolkata Statesman reports, “Durga Puja does not assume its festive aura without the maddening beats of the dhak, the large drum that men hang around their necks and play with two thin sticks to infuse frenzied rhythm into listeners.”
These drum beaters (dhakis) come to our cities from impoverished villages in Bengal, mingle with the revelers for four days and then retreat back into their seemingly endless and hopeless penury. Before they go back, they beat their drums and walk our city streets, seeking tips, almost begging.
drums go sadly past
with weeping wailing brass angst
your autumn festers
back in our village
will my babies have new clothes
will the money last
mother is dazzled
many twinkling Chinese lights
our cool autumn wind
my village station
dim twilight will walk away
with drum on bent back
one earthen oil lamp
the crop is in stars are out
dry stumps of paddy
You with golden womb
what value your creation
depreciation starts now
so ephemeral
