SALTY RICE
I behold these
red grains boiling
Tossing and
swelling in my cooking pot
Eyes fiery-red,
my blood simmering
In my
grief-stricken heart turning hot
I behold the hot
steam spiralling upwards
And hot tears are
trickling down my face
Ascends this
steam as a soul heavenwards
Perhaps it is him
– But I can't see his face
Never known him -
that farmer
His children or
his wife
Knew him only as
a nourisher
Before he ended
his life
Never seen his
then-rugged hands
That grew
precious crops
Not seen his
now-parched lands
That yearn for
raindrops.
With honour he
tilled, with others by his side
Season after
season – hot and cold, wet and dry
And when he saw
them commit suicide
He too killed
himself – could no longer cry!
A teardrop just
fell into this pot
The steam now
dwindling
The rice is now
dry and hot
I take a spoonful
of serving
It tastes
salty...very saline!
Could it be from
his sweat?
Or from his tears
or mine?
The farmer who I
never met
***** Ratish Iyer *****
