Just For The Scorpion Bite, Nissim Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

Just for the scorpion bite, Nissim, you turned into a great poet
Writing the very Indian poem
Of the very Indian countryside
And its people,
Applying herbal, incantatory and allopathic
To save the life moaning and groaning in pain,
Writhing in.

But you should note it, Nissim, this is not a new thing
To have happened for the first time,
Such an incident happens generally,
I can tell you
Of the daughter bitten and being dead
In the forest ranger's quarters.

Nissim, the India of the countryside, rural space
You know them not
The houses made of mud and thatched roofs
With the sparrows chirping at daybreak,
You do not,
Do not know them,
Nor have tried you to understand them.

Just as an alien insider saw you India, just as a foreigner
Or a minority caste man,
You saw India and read it the emotions,
Alienating from its
Ethos, historicity, art, culture and tradition,
Myth, mystery and mysticism,
Metaphysics, theology and cosmology,
Religion, spirituality, philosophy and ethics.

Just for the scorpion bite, the scorpion bite, the critics praised You with so much so admiration and acclamation,
I have no words,
No words to say to and share with
As in the mud houses, on the walls of it,
Under the jute knapsacks
Or the haystacks

Live they the brown scorpions,
But the woody scorpions look like small crabs,
Blackly and shining,
Beetle-like,
But somewhat slow in movement,
Not like the brown, wheatish scorpions..