Dalit Poetry

Dalit poetry, Found I in the fisherman’s home, The fisherman working all daylong, From early in the morning, Casting nets, Catching fish And putting into the weal. Dalit poetry, Found I in the cobbler’s home, Working from dawn to dusk, Doing the leather work At the city centre Or the town square By the footpath Or on the platform, Polishing the boots. Dalit poetry, Found I in viewing the gipsy girls, Ill-clad and ill-clothed, Asking for alms Into the train bogies, Holding the shoes Or legs, Cleaning the compartments And asking for money. Dalit poetry, Found I in marking the washermen And they going to the ghat As for to wash clothes And return back home late in the afternoon, Exhausted and done with And the ass too bearing the brunt. Dalit poetry, Fopund I in seeing them driven out of homes, The old and the pensioners When came they The new members in the house, The son turning into a bad son, Which but the mother cannot generally. Dalit poetry, Found I in reservation, The protesters and demonstrators Doing self-immolation And the rustic fellows, The buffoons, clowns and scoffers As the ministers stood they Instigating and provoking As for chair. Dalit poetry, Found I in watching the scavenger women Going to throw off human excreta, In the tin takers Placed overherad or on the wheelbarrow, They chewing paan And going away In toil, sweating and heat of the day To the municipal garbage heap, Where vats are cleared.