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poem

The Eviction of the Shanty Town Dwellers

by Ahmed Sofa
Driven by the mad urge of livelihood
These rural folks, throng after throng, leaving The homesteads of forefathers, Burning love for ploughshare, intense-hunger for boil, family feuds ,
Smell of cattle urine, .< , . / ।
The ballad world of warrior Hanif, And the tale of Sonavan. the folk princess: Leaving everything behind;
These rural folks crowd in the city Like innumerable ants drawn towards honey. Who cares, who is whose son or grandson They make their way by trains, by buses. By lorries, or through zigzag route on foot.
Because tenible famine chased them
Cruel hunger threatened them like wrath of tiger. Drought dried them up and flood carried them away Like jungle weeds.
The village driven people, first looked at the city As if it is a funny folk story come to life. Streets bathe in abundant light. Playful fairies move around, Sweet music oozes out of their footsteps.
In the morning, at noon and in the afternoon. Steam, air. water and lightning flash of the sky Serve the city like faithful slaves Vehicles steer the street in speed Water trickles out when button is pressed. Machines produce air.
Happiness hangs here like bunch of grapes.
Ah! this is the city
And city is the abode of wonder
Village forsaken people flock together Here in the open space of the city. Like motherless children, these parasites Of civilization hasten to build their Unstable homes, with bamboo, stick whatever they can get. Some carry loads, some pull rickshaws Some work as mason assistants and factory hands. Some peddle, some deal with petty articles Some manage by repairing old umbrellas Some roam the streets jingling a bunch of keys Some steal deep in the night, some gamble Some are really lucky, they pick pockets Some become the pimps of prostitutes.
Women folks work in houses as domestic hands And often cook in the bachelor messes Where unmarried clerks have their first Lesson in the voluptuous love.
Among them, there are God-fearers too,
Who arrange religious congregation to stop sin. Priests shout whole night with bloodshot eyes. But the force of sin gathers fresh momentum Like forceful tide of the river;
Often quarrels break out
Among the people of Noakhali, Chittagong, Either Barisal or Faridpur.
No wonder occasional murders create Ghastly atmosphere all around.
Ah what fun of life, the city is the dreamspot of rural peasants But peasants themselves pass the night without any shred of dream. Even then, life has its own miracle Deepest cravings of soul make their way Songs murmur in t he shanty town.
Love spreads its wings like fireflies in the hearts of men and women.
Under the thick quilt in deep blissful sleep
Shivering starlight throws its spell.
Bamboo made tiny huts are like honey-combs
Filled with children's laughter and women's giggles.
Amid pain and pleasure life rotates
Suffering and worry are there
Still life continues in smooth rhythm.
Famine casts its horrible shadow
And in the whole land crisis crops up acute
Very often confusion makes inroad into their minds.
They compare, which is better: life or death.
Poignant blood stained cry of time
Vibrates ceaselessly with the movement of air
Thick layers of helplessness
Gradually darken the eyeballs of the shanty town-dwellers.
These village deprived people
Who are undestined for life or death
Sometime stir up with daring spirit.
The violent processions make the street tremble
Angry men jump out like young shoal fish
Banners flutter, chant slogans
'Long live the leader, who is our father and mother both.'
In their heated voice, vainly the fragments of
Bright dreams are spilled out like blood vomiting.
As if they have raped their own dreams
By the crafty design of the foe.
After offering the blossoming flower of heart
As homage in the service of the false gods.
Only one business is left to them.
They embrace cold emaciated women bodies,
These people are like floating algae
Moving around the streets, devoid of any human bondage
Home? Where is home?
The symbol of peace and happiness
Oasis in the midst of desert
Ah home, the pleasure of lost Eden is echoed in that word;
Banana bushes, slanting coconut shade
Beauty of the hanging foliage of green mango and jack fruit groves
In the month of sweet Phalgoon,
Still water of tanks gaze at heaven with utmost wonder
Curved flow of river, impatient call of calves
And the golden paddy abound In the autumnal field
Within the cover of simple modest graves
Forefathers rest eternally In blissful sleep.
As if these graves are but the store houses of jewel.
In the hearts of these homeless people pangs for home burns like fire
They hear in dreams, the voice of forefathers
And the roar of thunder
Flow of river dazzles their gaze.
And in the neuron cells creep up the smell of new thrashed paddy.
Their minds become flat fields full of air.
And the sweet sound of unceasing rain beats in the very rhythm of blood.
In the open space of city with bamboo and wood
They build the caricature of homes.
These totter as the wind strikes and in the
Month of fiery Baisakh devastating storm uproots the poles and pillars.
In the month of Magh claws of unkind cold
Pierce their skin like wild bear.
The places, where the homeless rural folks
Station their wretched existence
• Pretend with much effort as the make-belief of homes.
Gradually time matures, then one morning
The shanty town-dwellers had to wake from sleep
For orders came from the authority
Remove the heaps of dirty rubbish.
So that the city feel secure and beauty
Can be enhanced like the phase of moon.
Secret reports already reached the bosses
These peddlars. coolies and the wage labourers All in secret hatch plot to destroy the city with blast after blast
At the first chance, they are planning to snatch
Fiery thunders from blue heaven
To hurl in the heart of the cruel city like scourge.
They are planning to avenge the deprivation of village
And create havoc in the street for the claim of golden harvest.
Blood shall flow and the street shall be dyed with red.
Like the stormy rage of the sea. the battle cry shall be raised
We shall smash the pale shell of civilization with angry strikes.
Silent preparations are ahead in every nook and corner.
Report says, invisible beings write blueprint
For bringing blood red blooming morning
Plant unvanquished saplings of hope in the soil of the crushed heart Lambs turn into smart and.fierce, with clawsand teeth.
It is settled, all in we yolqe shall rpar out like angry, Jions
Suppressed fear reigns around
Wild rumours afloat in air
It seems, suddenly hard stone shatters with violent tremor.
Condensed wails of soil transform into life giving songs.
Pounding hearts beat like war trumpet
When reports passed
Bulldozers leaving deep imprint on soft soli
Started moving like mechanical elephants
Blind with rage and anger
Began to crush the home of homeless destitute,
Skinny naked dirty curious children had the chance to look at
An unveiled identity of man
With terror in heart they saw the fixed black eyes on the barrels of killing machines
Mute-women like tamed birds
Stand like still paintings
Failed to feel, when tears dried up in their eyes.
The elders mutter, none can escape the write of fate
Younger people with bowed heads undergo the process of torture
The pang is deep — deep indeed
As if they are skinning a goat alive.
The shanty town friend, shameless stray dog leaving aside porous juicy bone makes melancholy sound.
The bird "Shalik" is sad stricken, forgot to sing suddenly grows quiet
In deep anguish the flowers drop as drops of red tears
Bundles of quilts, pillows, utensils, hurricane and pitchers
And the evening lantern and hovering pigeon in the sky
And below the milch nunny goat
All lament in chorus for the sorrow of suffering humanity.
These rural folks are like the birds of spoilt nest
Whither thy go. by following the path of mist?
With their shaking feet what message they write on the streets.
In their crushed hearts, with flash of lightning
And in their bones and marrows what fire of deprivation
Strives to make way in impending darkness.
Oh proud cruel city
The theater of power game and devoid of human feeling
To thee we shall return the prize of deprivation to the poorAgain we shall not go back to the village
Does the child ever return to mother s womb?
We shall be tortured and be molested
Our bones and marrow shall be crushed but we shall keep a whole night.
At day break, we shall burst forth like the squadron bombardment planes.
Oh city, proud cruel city
In your narrow cruel heart one day we shall hurl unprecedented scourge
And shall avenge the deprivation of village
Create havoc in the name of golden crop
Blood shall flow and the streets shall lw dyed with red
Like the stormy rage of the sea. we shall
Smash the pale shell of civilization