Harijan

 

 

Harijan is the name that was given to the Untouchable caste by Mohandas Gandhi. It means "Child of the Preserving One."

 

The folds of your short robe flow like a sea of milk.

Cows and other passersby avert their eyes

and turn from you.

Sun is beating fists upon your shoulders,

leaning on your bent back with an overripe smile.

The glaring white of the houses

frames an emptiness. The mind of India is black.

 

Mud road, mud ruts. Shit in the gutters

and mounds of garbage are yours to pick up.

But you are both south poles of different magnets,

and they skitter from your hand with static repulsion.

At last all is gathered, and all bundled up.

Down the alley, a new mess

of old curry, green oranges. A dead cat

grins at you with maggot teeth.

A holy man sees you and crosses the street.

 

The sun has tired of torture.

He sags in the sky.

The temple towers jab dark fingers in his face.

Incense twists before the image of Kali,

your red-flecked mother. Come here, she mutters,

I have ten arms and long teeth, but

it will not hurt long

and afterwards so much peace-

No. You walk home and watch the shadows,

black snakes uncoiling out of corners,

charmed by dinner music.

You hear it, too, asthmatic wail of flute and drum,

but mostly you hear the sound of your own voice:

Warning, warning, I am coming down the street,

Don't touch, don't approach, for I am coming.

As if the people were clear water, they draw back from you,

greasy clot of God.

 

© 1985 Gregor Everitt