Sunday Special Two poems by Bhaskaranand Jha Bhaskar


Millions of legs, tight and stout, step out
Of their weak doorsteps
With their empty but mighty hands;
They never shirk working anywhere,
In any way, or so many ways
In any circumstances
Melting even Dallol, the hottest
With their cool-mindedness
Or heating even Oymyakon, the coldest
With their hot blood.
They leave no stone unturned
Even for meagre means or daily wages
Just to quench the flaring fire in their belly,
All stuck to the bony back
With parched tongues never seen by others.
Days and nights matter not!
Far from the trajectory of joy and pleasure
They, remaining stoic, keep working
Untagged from their safety and security,
Losing all stately tags and badges
Forgetting their own true identity
As human beings!
How strange! Even dogs get a better treat
In the land they till and toil.
Sorry state of affairs!
Where human chains get loose or broken
By iron or golden rods of high-handedness
Pathetic! Apartheid rules the roost
In other way round
Maybe sound to some affluent insane
Flaunting their power or fear
Against mute, dumb, numb, homeless bodies.
Forced and scared! Fleeing legs head back
Back to the hell—
The beehive of evil and suffering,
Yet protected from the volley of abusing stones
Hurled on their faceless faces
Dreadfully defaced in the new valley of violence.
Let their conscience be hurt and bruised today
For tomorrow their heart hurt and mind wounded
Are sure to discover a healing balm
For their long rusty blues–
Under their own bright and blue sky
With the green bed spread out
Resolving the conflicts between hands and mouths.
It is better to find the ground under the feet
Than build the sky over the heads
As Milton’s Satan was right to say-
“Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven”.


Gloomy darkness seems to have engulfed
The whole world of life
As light has hidden its head behind.
Sobs of sorrows are heard
Everywhere in each and every terrain.

The flocks are forced to stay back home in fear.
And I am glued to the scary news channels
In the hope of good news
That the hard times have passed
That the poisonous waves have receded.

Wagging its tail the pregnant dog looks at me,
Not for food, but for its life to be saved;
Birds seem to have lost their nests.
Their screams are heard only to send
A chill down the spine!

Let the stormy weather rain deadly stones
Crushing down moments of joy,
Hope of life does sprout up from the dead leaves
And I am, here, with pen and paper
Watching triumphs of seeds, plants and trees.

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