This, My Land...

This, My Land...

By

CHANDINI SANTOSH


This, my land,
He said:
His city hands inside jeans pocket,
Where my grandfather’s bones
Have been laid to rest

As the stone crusher moved in
With yellow arms
Scouring red earth,
Mixing blood and yearning
Death and salvation

The trees have been felled
And taken care off
The avuncular contractor
Rubs his stubby hands together
Now being chiseled into carved doors
And wide windowsills
(This in an aside)

Those majestic teak trees
With brush drop of flowers
The cashews with grating leaves
The pepper vines encircling the jackfruit trees
And the avocados that made you diabetic for life
I don’t go near them, Sir
Health hazard
The coconut palms
In their circular biblical bed
The arecanut trees
Mating in the wind
Not much produce, Sir
(Aloud, tongue in cheek)
They are mowing down the guava Sir
With succulent yellow fruits
Hanging beside the stone quarry

The laterite stone quarry, Sir?
It has been leveled
With all those yellow temple stones
Made good use of them, the little bastards!
(Another aside)

He knelt to pick
A blood red pebble of earth
With a wiry calcium deposit around it
(Some cheap sentiments)
And superstitions, no doubt

He smiled
As pickaxes bounced back
From fossilized bones
Dozens of them
Bones upon bones
The dead upon dead

You planted your story on them
And history shot up

………………….


The painting that you see above has been stolen. So be it!