A Wintry Number

K. Radhakumar *

In the place where I was born
Heavy fogs do not cover the mornings;
Here, away from home
Among the fogbound citizens of New Delhi
One is not comfortable till mid-morning
Till the time the fog finally lifts.

Though a thick fog is affecting the garden
Right here in front of me
Chrysanthemums are in bloom
In geometrically arranged flowerpots
And the ugly blanket of fog cannot dampen
The spirit of beauty.
The flowers are beautiful, and look happy.
Beautiful!
Beautiful is the word that escapes my lips.
Beautiful, simply beautiful.

I have been here in this strange place
Since yesterday only
And this warmth of beauty reminds me
Chrysanthemums have been in bloom
Back home also.

I do not know
The religion that is practised
The tongue that is spoken;
This I do know
Fog or no fog
Chrysanthemums in bloom
Here and also back home
Are beautiful, simply beautiful.
This also I do know
Time and place are make-up applied
By skin-deep civilisation.
So are your religions and your languages.

Though people spend hours fogbound here
There is nothing to tell about
The cold winter,
Poverty or the tale of woe.
Life here moves at a fast pace
Like cars travelling at speed
With fog lights on.
They go to the theatre in the evening
The children of civilisation
Dressed to kill
After having whisky and soda in the bar
And they do not mind to be taxed.

There in the village of the poor
People die of hunger.
There it is a luxury
If one has a radio,
A black and white television.
There is no other form of entertainment
And they have many children -
Dirty, semi-naked and malnourished
A see-through chest, a bulging tummy
Disfigured by abject poverty.
They are used to it;
It is only natural for families living in want -
Such is life in the village of the poor.
Here are people
Who do not get the light of education
Who cannot read, write and do arithmetic
Who do not bother
When people are saying
The end of the world is coming.