Three Poems by Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia

 

THE METAL TRILOGY 

 

METAL POISONING

 

Your words

Taste of cold metal

I spit them 

Out of my consciousness

With studied viciousness 

 

Copper bowl

Bled bilious green 

With poison

A hissing kiss that grew

With death shot through 

 

Black hood

The Mark of Vishnu 

Draws blood

The Melody you see

Coroner’s plea

 

ZARI

 

In Heaven’s Neighbourhood, Banaras town,

They are not hard to find, mid brass-topped domes,

And everywhere the River, coppery-brown,

And scholars labouring over ancient tomes:

Those places where the shimmering strands are drawn,

Today from brass, where yesterday lay gold, 

Today from tin, which once did silver spawn, 

Threads strong enough for needle-eyes to hold. 

Woven with silk in intricate designs,

Peacocks and Paisley, Temple-tops and Trees,

Products of mulberry and Kolar mines,

The work of craftsmen as busy as bees;

These saris, each a gorgeous masterpiece,

Zari on Silk, azure, emerald, cerise.

 

IRON IN THE SOUL

 

In Sakhuapaani, Village of Sal Water, 

Sits Laldeo Asur, dying Tribal Elder, 

Sunning his aged body, lost in thought,

Recalling all the glory of the past.

 

His dimming eyes can see Pola and Bichi

And Gota - Magnetite and Haematite, 

And  Laterite- yielded- Haematite

Found in the Queen of Jharkhand, Netarhaat.

 

He thinks back to the time when the Asurs

Competed with the Birjiyas and Lohaars, 

And also the Agarias , to smelt iron, 

And how the Tatas came and swooped

 

Their produce and its base, the precious ore, 

Their ancient process, and its secret lore, 

All stolen without so much as a “ please, 

Or by your leave” , and how it broke his heart

 

And how it broke the economic back

Of all four tribes, robbing them of their work

And relevance and importance at once. 

Yet one thing , extracts a twisted smile

 

No iron in the world is like the tribes’

So beautiful, so tensile, rust-resistant

Made in clay ovens of natural rare earths

On charcoal of green Sal , fanned by bellows

 

Of softest deer- skin, still full of phosphorous.

“ Glory be to the canons of Sultan Tipu !

Glory be to the Pillars of Ashoka ! 

Glory be to the Emperor’s Iron Column

 

By the Qutub Minar ! “ cries out Laldeo,

( For these are made of India’s ancient iron

With “ miswate” film protection, naturally ) 

“ Before the British came, or Old Jamset,

 

When we were lords of our own land and rivers

And our own jungles, our own air and sky, 

All miracles were possible, but now ,

The glory of our people won’t return—

 

Such laws the British made, that though they left 

The laws remained , and still they loot

Our ancient land through agents corporate 

Who look like us but work with British minds.”

 

Ruined, ruined, ruined, and devastated

Slowly but ever so surely killed 

Indigenous art and craft and skill and culture

Whole tribes going or already extinct

 

The vicious cycles let loose by man’s greed

The curses of colonial capitalism

Who can fathom the evil that they did

And how they keep on coming back to haunt us ? 

 

It’s not what people do alone that matters

It’s mindsets they perpetuate that kill 

“ Beware of the unconscious sins in  you “,

Says Laldeo Asur, and closes his eyes.

 

Beware, beware, there’s Iron in your Soul !

Beware , beware, it is not Asur Iron!

Beware before you rust - for rust you must-

Repent , repent, do penance, Modern Man !

 

 

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia is one of the various pen names used by Punjab-born, Patna-based retired Indian bureaucrat Amita Paul , for her original writings in different genres, in English, Urdu, Hindi and Punjabi, featured in various anthologies, journals, and online creative writing forums. A recipient of many awards and recognitions, Amita nevertheless is reclusive by nature and prefers to keep a low profile. She loves silence , solitude and Nature.