I, swearing by labour,
shape wood with my adze
You, with nothing to do,
are scratching my face
with pitiless malice
I, swearing by labour,
bring a sparkling shine
to your soiled and dirty
white clothes
You, with nothing to do,
are infecting my child's child
with untouchability
I, swearing by labour,
fold fine clothes on the loom
into a matchbox
You, with nothing to do,
are turning me, through deceit,
into a loincloth clad beggar
I, swearing by labour,
seeing you eat raw leaves, roots
give you pots
to cook
You, with nothing to do,
are making a hole in my pot,
tying a lid over my mouth
I, swearing by labour,
skin myself
to make shoes for you
You, with nothing to do,
are tying a palmyra leaf to my waist
erasing my traces
I, swearing by labour,
use my body's strength
and my mind's wisdom
as bricks to build mansions
You, with nothing to do,
are uprooting foundations
to make me a servant
in my own home
That's why I tell you bluntly
whether you wish to stitch your own chappals
or bang your head against the ground, it's your choice
Whether you wish to wash your own clothes
or run around naked like babas, it's your choice
You grandchildren of the manu dharma
which arranged a step ladder for caste
and supported it with religion,
our kids are competing
to play marbles with your heads.
My translation of the Telugu poem 'maa pillOllu pOTii paDutunnaaru' by G.V.Ratnakar (from the collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina paaTa').
Tags: G.V.Ratnakar