The People

The doings of people,
their endless trade of days.
On Sundays the crowds spill into the fields,
moving from one bank of the river to the other,
the routines of households flowing into the open air.
 
Madan Ghorui arrives at the market,
a sack of cow-dung cakes upon his head,
having walked four kilometers of mud and water,
his dhoti knotted high above his knees.
 
Malati, again without a place to sit,
wanders with her basket of flowers,
today finding a space between Madan Ghorui
and Rafiqul Mia’s sack of pointed gourds.
The sun has only just risen;
people begin to arrive.
 
Across the plains they come,
to Bhola’s tea stall where customers crowd.
Some gather to talk—
farming news, politics of the land,
stories of neighbors—
whose daughter has fever,
whose wife has gone to her father’s house,
who left late today,
who forgot to bring soaked rice from home.
 
Sometimes they laugh,
sometimes they love without reason.
Among them—
fields tilled, houses tended,
flocks of fish kept in ponds.
 
A fakir sings,
his little daughter clapping in unending joy.
One man lies silent in the market corner,
indifferent to all the noise,
to the rush and din that swirls around him.
 
Bonipisi calls out at times,
hoping someone across the road will notice.
Boats thrum upon the riverbank,
while Bipin Chakraborty searches the crowd
to meet his eldest son,
still heavy with hurt pride.
 
Sohorab too has come, though he had not planned;
his mother is unwell,
and the eggs will spoil if not sold today.
On the riverbank a clamor rises—
a woman has fallen into the water.
 
The market fares poorly,
prices have dropped.
Sukumar sits with his basket of betel leaves,
waiting for customers that never come.
 
Rupamati walks the aisles with her flute for sale,
her beauty like darkness itself,
drawing the eyes of many.
 
And the shepherd’s son—
a youth seated on his father’s grocery platform—
opens a chemistry book;
he will sit for the higher secondary this year.
Behind the shop, the goods are piled high,
the people huddle in knots,
while in the center of the bazaar
he reads on,
ears closed to the noise of people,
though once, he lifts his eyes—
and sees Rupamati’s flute.
 
Morning has grown,
but these people—
they have no time to stand still.
They rush from one side of the field to the other,
their endless business of life,
their burden of survival.
 
The doings of people,
always pressed down
by life itself.