9.1 C
Kathmandu
Sunday, November 24, 2024

This House Is Crumbling for Sure

Must read

Kangmang Naresh Rai

From the family dangen, every day
a handful of soot falls upon the fireplace
at which, my darling sister screams
and in her babbles, implores

Even as I watch
these black bunches are dropping
upon the samkha of the hearth
The beam and the poles are cracking.
Adobe on the wall is crumbling
Termites seem to have devoured the central pole
This house is crumbling for sure.

The April wind has blown the roof away
slivers and poles have been littered on the front-yard and backyard
every pole is rotten
can the poles that hold the verandah, hold the roof?
More, winter is approaching
but we are yet to gather thatch.
Greenery has rejuvenated.
The new bamboo poles are rotting on the stack
This house is crumbling for sure.

Father, in the name of slivering bamboo
cuts off the fissures on his feet with a jack-knife
while at times, staring at the roof, carves out a milk-pot
he sometimes gawks at the tattered surwal and scratches himself
or sometimes, feign to make a tether for the unruly cattle.
There also are moments when, with an old basket
he visits the next-door, downhill
and returned drinking ale to his fill, leaving the basket behind.
This house is crumbling for sure.

The mother, pregnant
is about to deliver any moment
yet, she struggles herself on the grinding stone
crushing the weevil-devoured corn lent by a friend
and cleans the front-yard with all her efforts;
there’s no firewood at home;
she gathers splinters left from carved milk-pot
and makes fire
too faint to cook meal.
Grumbling, she breaks a few mouldy stalks
and takes them in.
Rain has sneaked into the interior;
This house is crumbling for sure.

Like the year gone by
water, this year too, is sure
to make this home a marshy field.
Neighborus, who denied lending some thatch
too would file up now, covered by perforated plastic sheets
to oversee the wretchedness.
O, what a shame it’s going to be, now!
Perhaps, the house will crumble for sure this year.

This foetus, too will die
along with me, all drenched by rain water.
What will my little kids do now—
they haven’t had their wings, yet.

The neighbours will appoint
my unruly
impertinent husband as Pradhan Pancha.
In that cash, tell
Prachandaji, Jhalanathj, Sushilji!
Will our house still stand erect, along with us?

[Naresh Kangmang Rai is a Nepali poet, based in Fiuji Lear Avenue, Foxton Cantt, UK.]

Previous article
Next article

More articles

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here

Latest article