Bruised, but not Broken (poems)

-Challapalli Swarooparani 

24. Mother Curry

You’re the consumers of
Ghee-mixed food, my lords.

Till now, none has taught us, Sirs,
That food has caste
And gruel, religion.

I swear on my mother
In our abject poverty
It was this curry, Sirs,
That saved our race
From hunger pangs
And filled our bodies
With stamina and strength.

I must tell you the truth
A beef of two rupees
Mixed with two packs of rosella leaf
Filled up the bellies of a family.

As some city-dwellers are prone
To describe their own mother
As a maid servant
When she visits them
This mother curry too is cursed
To be known only by code names
Like ‘Jasmine’ or ‘Right-o’
But never by its real name!
That very name spells shame, Sirs.

On a festive day
We too yearn
To devour sweets and savouries
It is hard enough to
Fill our steaming pots
With a brinjal fry
A couple of tomatoes
Bought from the shop-keeper.

Where, then, is the possibility, Sirs
Of a costly pudding?

People cherish different heavens
If you treasure pickled mango and chilly,
Taste them day after day
You’re practising a gourmet’s art.

When we preserve pieces of dry meat
On a net slung from our roofs and cook them
With cucumber pieces
To eat in times of hunger
That’s our ….. Sirs.

Returning home
After back-breaking labour
We nibble at roasted dry fish And eat a plate of watery-rice That’s when
Heaven descends on our ghetto.

While your mixed condiments
Turn into curry-luggage
And transcend continents
Why do you fill our bowls with bullets, Sirs?
When I eat a morsel with beef
To quench hunger’s fire
How is it that you stand up
To squeeze the very life out of me?

(Telugu: “Tallikoora”, translated by N. R.Tapaswi and published in Bahujana Keratalu, October, 2017.)

*****

(To be continued-)

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