Helplessness

courtesy Indian Express

Looking out of the window of my friend's car,               

At the grey march of the mountains in the distance,                                    

The green vines planted in long  straight rows,                                  

Wind ruffling my hair, soft music on the radio,                                               

A hard -bound  book of Ondatje’s poetry in hand                           

The lines like the delicate gait of a black wood stork                    

Leaving claw prints of blood and loss, on creamy pages                                             

When the news reader  announces  on the French radio,                         

In the bland, matter-of -fact voice of a news reader:                                  

¨Twenty children in Bihar, dead due to food -poisoning                                              

And thirty others hospitalized. The free lunch served                                  

In the canteen suspected of containing insecticide.¨                                      

There is no poetry here, no rhythm or rhyme                                                

Just a blunt statement  of the ultimate betrayal ;                                         

Death meted out through the promise of life,                                               

To the innocent, needy and powerless.                                                    

I exclaim in blind anger to my friend,                                                                   

"This is the difference between your country and mine                              

In ours, people’s lives  are counted in numbers                                                            

Twenty, a hundred, what difference does it make ?                                   

In yours an accident on the highway is announced                                      

Over and over, as if it’s of primordial importance !"

                                      

Who am I angry with ? Him the son of  a rich country ?                            

Myself  'cause I am exiled in one 'n enjoy the privielege ?                        

I have never been an activist, here or back home                                        

Never taken part in rallies, nor raised my voice in anger.

Is that why I am angry ? At my self-imposed impotence ?

Arunima Choudhury