The Poor Daughter Of The Country Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

The Poor Daughter Of The Country



I saw her
The poor daughter of India
Living poorly
Under impoverished circumstances,
Sweeping, cleaning,
Washing
And living
In the country.

A girl child
Why so neglected and ignored
In her own home,
A daughter
Why interpreted so differently,
As a family burden
Or debt
To be cleared forth.

The poor daughter
Of the country
Smiling
In the midst of scarcity
And poverty,
Never complaining against
What it marauds,
Maligns her self.

The poor daughter
Of the poor country
Living poorly,
Passing her days in anonymity,
Utter disgust,
But saying it not
To anyone,
A girl so poor,
So neglected in India.

Her work starts
Right from the daybreak
And she cleans the utensils,
Sweeps the courtyard,
Readies the hearth
With the logs and leaves
And cow dung cakes
To burn it,
The poor daughter of India.

She herself a small girl,
A small daughter
Of the villages,
Where do the rounds
Poverty and hunger,
Superstition and uncultured,
Backwardness and underdevelopment,
Misrule and mismanagement,
Scarcity and want.

There is nothing as that to take,
Take you
Stale food left over
As that of the night,
The stale rice or bread
Ad that too if available
And take you,
There is nothing as that
Like tea.

The poor daughter of India
Telling a poor tale
In a poor light
Of description,
Oil is not in her tangled and lousy hair,
Food not in the stomach,
But still she struggling,
Still she living,
Complaining it not.

The poor daughter of India
Living poorly
Into the Indian villages
Poorly
Without any name
Or identity,
With no words to say
Or stake claim over.

The things of the house
Not her own,
Nor can she claim over
When she goes to
The other man house,
A relative of the distant
To go to other man houses,
Not a thing of own,
Such a belief, such a statement.

She is but a debt,
A family burden to be cleared
Lying overhead,
The cause of pressure,
The thing of load,
When will she go away,
Where and when
To clear off the debt,
With whose activity
Is linked with the family prestige.

The poor daughter of India
Living poorly
In the poor villages of India
Where do the rounds
Poverty and un-culture,
Backwardness and superstition,
Un-education and scarcity,
Want and shortcoming,
Foolishness and rustic viewing,
Oh, the poor daughter of India
Living poorly!

The poor daughter of India
Living poorly
Without the hair oil,
The face cream,
Uncombed and unsettled,
The skin rough and good,
But still she smiling,
Seeing the pathways
For the coming of unknown guest
Whom she can entertain
In full joviality.

In a loose and worn out frock,
Darned, discoloured and old,
See I,
Lousy ad tangled,
Clumsy and dirty,
But in spirits
From her within,
With the brother
Into the lap of hers,
She a help maid for her mother.

There is nothing as morning breakfast,
Take the stale food late
And if that too is,
Or a little bit of anything,
Cook you
Burning the hearth,
Bearing heat and smokes
In the low-roofed muddy kitchen
Of the muddy house.

The day-time food that too is
Not available
Late into the noon,
Going by 1.30 to 2.00 p.m.
And even touching 3.00 p.m.
That is almost the afternoon time
And that too
With the left-overs
Of the brother and the father too.

Again she resumes her duties
And responsibilities
Of cleaning the utensils
At twilight,
Sweeping the floor,
Showing the earthen lamp light
To gods
And by visiting each of the rooms
As for dispelling darkness.

But the earthen lamp burns it not
For so long
Into the dark villages
Of dark and medieval India
Where hung it heavy
The purdah,
The development regressed it
After the invasion
By the looters, plunders and invaders
Who took it to be not own,
But for a booty.

The poor daughter of India
Living poorly
In the poor villages of India
Sleeping on the date-leaf mat,
Cooking food from the hearth
With dry leaves collected,
Twigs and cow dung cakes,
Reddening the eyes
With smokes coming out
And the ventilation suffocated.

Nothing to take,
But all to give,
She lives,
Passes the life her own
In the patriarchal house
And leaves it for
An unknown destination,
Into the hands of
A ganjeri, bhangeri or a drunkard
Or a woman-seller.

Whatever the conditions of life,
She has to go,
Has to go
As this is not her home,
Of her father,
Of her brother
And she has no right to live in here
In the father’s home,
But in the husband’s home
Good or bad.

She has to bear it all but silently
And the tears
To drink falling from
The eyes
And she wiping out
All but silently,
This the tragedy of her life,
This the tragedy of her living,
A poor girl of India,
A poor daughter of the Indian villages
Languishing in poverty and disgust.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Abdulrazak Aralimatti 27 July 2015

Truly, the Indian village girl lives under great poverty, suppression, critical condition.Added the poem to my poem list.

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