The Cooking Pot
And The Sickle
I.
Who in the last season had sown
The Aryan1 seeds in
this field with love?
When the hot sun of March burned
Rain - fire above, red embers below,
With his bullock waving its dewlap
Drawing the plough deep, unwearied;
Not with the sheen of oil glowed
His body, but with sweat;
Until the earth turned into fine dust,
Until Vishu2 decked
the Konna3 with blossoms,
Koman had ploughed the field up and
down;
Koman had sown the Aryan seeds.
When the clouds moved on leaving their
print
On the filed where fresh seeds
sprouted,
Were there more golden shoots in the
field
Or on the breast of Koman in rapture?
He had no rest either day or night,
What care he took to keep the watch!
The weeds too came up and grew thick
And the breeze thus blew to make music.
In the blue expanse all along
Swam and danced the water-waves,
Till the women flowed in like swans
To pluck and pick the weeds.
II.
The field was infested with weeds this
year,
How hard for the farmer it was!
Gone is what was kept as seed corn;
Gone too what was meant for food!
Gone again the price of the bullock,
sold,
Unmindful of the work after harvest!
Aromal Chekavar4 won
the joust,
Yet the weeds yielded not a span!
The bangles pleaded and flirted,
Yet the weeds yielded not a span!
Koman didn't pay his son's school fees,
Nor did he pay up his instalments,
And he didn't buy the prescription
For the fever his child caught from the
new rains,
Gazing at her hands with the mylanchi5
mark
Made long before the new year's eve,
The weed-picker girl started to cry;
What a wild game of the season's
mischief!
III.
At the heel of the burning summer came
The all-upsetting thundershowers,
And as the rice seedlings overcome by
thirst
Opened their sheaths to drink the rain
water,
Koman too took the same clean drink;
That's of course what a father does.
And as the field grew dark and dense
With the spread of vacant spots,
When the dark rain had its orgy
Never stopping either night or day,
Till the ears of corn were seen
That brought sheer joy to the eye.
Koman was seen on the dyke
Like an oracle dancing his role.
When the first few torrential rains
In the last month of the year had
ended,
There were the red-lipped ears of corn,
All along the level fields
With a heart given to ecstasy
Koman embraced his whole family.
What excitement in that house now,
To husk the paddy, to get fresh rice!
Father was fondling his little daughter
IV.
Seated on his knees; he coaxed her;
"A new skirt for my kitten
For theOnam6
flower-festival."
Mother looked at the elder daughter,
Who seemed to pull a long face.
And father said, "If the yield is
gold,
We'll spend it on a wedding
locket."
"I didn't mean anything like
that,"
The girl wearing glass bangles blushed.
"Three months' fees remain to be
paid",
A hum arose somewhere in the group.
To each according to his desire;
The master of the house apportioned it.
Mother too had her private need;
"We must have pot to cook the new
rice,"
The soul of that family fluttered
around
Like a dragonfly in that golden field;
And the ears grew heavy for a good
harvest
Like a display of fireworks.
Are the dancers tired of the
performance?
The rice plants lay down in full
embrace.
As if to reap the moonlight of Onam
The golden sickle was rising.
People who passed by were heard to say;
"Koman has grown gold in this
field."
V.
Who was it that reaped this year
The golden grain that Koman grew?
Neither Koman nor his men - but
A court officer and his henchmen!
The morning they had fixed for the
harvest
Gently opened her painted eyes.
The start of the celestial arbor
Tossed about by the wild storm
Were slowly blossoming to grace
In the cluster of tumpa flowers.
Koman came crossing the main dyke;
Behind him came his helpers.
Already the field was crowded;
The court officer got the harvest done.
Koman had just one glance of it;
All his desire was utterly lost;
As if he saw dogs barking
In the rice that was meant for a meal,
Koman had just one glance of it,
The power wielded by the court,
The revenge of the January crop
That withered for want of water from
the sky,
This affront of attachment and harvest
For the rental arrears, the landlord's
due?
VI.
The wrath of the reapers raised its
hood
And began to blow and hiss.
Neeli, the Pulaya girl, fell on the
ground
Beating her breast very hard.
"No one else shall reap this
crop,"
Cheru Koman stepped down into the
field.
Warming up to the fight and snarling
Like a leopard came forth Chathappan.
The hired harvesters cast away the
sheaves
And quickly climbed the dykes.
Koman raged as if possessed,
Like an elephant chained to the post.
And that way came Koman's elder
daughter,
A lovely little creeper,
Swinging and happy with the new pot
Bought to cook the new rice.
In her father's mind
Exploded a huge shell of fire,
She seemed like butter floating again
On the fire of his wrath.
In a few moments this treasure-land
Might turn into something strange.
On the dyke a voice arose to say
"Here are the orders; don't play
with them!"
Waving a piece of paper
There stood the court officer
Laying the land all barren
Like a rising cactus head!
VII.
Let the man who sowed see it;
The feudal order reaped the crop,
Sticking to the shade of the power;
A handful of robbers have kept all for
themselves.
The sickles lined up around the new pot
Which was no longer there,
The sickles useless for the harvest
Until sharpened against power. Pity!
The law leads the attack
On the land where the farmer grows the
crop.
The results of that attack
Arise from the dyke,
The new pots and the sickles
Join and thunder on the dyke;
"First we must reap power;
And after that the Aryan crop!"
Their throats began to spread
This mantra in the heavens;
"First we must reap power;
And after that the Aryan crop!"
Translated by the
well-known poet
Dr. Ayyappa Panikkar.
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