The muddy lanes
The rich clouds blessed with rains
Floats free over the hills
One the way I found bunches of sprouting roots
A host, of black plum trees,
Swaying and jazzing up with the stormy wind
The unbroken trail of fallen plum
Hand picking the fallen plum is an art
The juicy, round, fleshy black plum
Landed over the bed of fallen leaves
Lay with pride
Sparkling and bubbly
Picked one by one
Gently and placed in the basket.
Many rounded and juicy plum
Slides off the there hands
And punctured their bumps
With a squash sound!
Collected separate, as it has a bit lower rate,
In the market.
The floating purple side walks
They stretch in a never ending rail
Along the margin of the lane
Brought a million smiles at a glance
The children collect their shares in the leafy bowls
Cherish the bliss of juicy purple lips
Dancing and tossing the eaten seeds,
Competing in the thrill who shoots
The far with their mouth blowing shots
Showcasing their tongues, to be purple the most
As their pockets are still full with the jumpy plums
The land from where I belong!
A upland tribe could not but be buoyant,
In such a dusky day:
When saw the black drops,
Of showered elixir:
Festival of life.
The plum travels miles
From baskets to cart wheels
The wet roads, rusted carts
Decored with green leaves
Above which laid the berry queens!
Catches the eyes as a distant bee
Served within a leafy bowl
As the vendor assembles the black bumpy plums
Upon the green leafs,
Holds a small tin salt can punctured with several holes at the top,
On the other hand: S/He
Jiggle and drizzle, black salt over
And juggled the leafy bowl
All round, bumpy black plum
Popped and jumped
And it’s ready to dwell again
In the slide of juicy yet colorful train,
Of alive memories.
The heritage treasure of knowledge:
Preserved, practiced and passed on to the next
Has made it possible to note the tribe’s ties,
Still awaken from graves
The awaken tribe, it is
Who bolt the seeds
Of nature’s knowledge to travel
Through the seas
The herbal therapy, label today
Can it hold the richness of ages old clay?
The black plum not just plumy burst
Pulp get drenched and juiced,
Stored in bottles and circulated,
To boost the immune’s.
While the seeds aren’t left untouched,
Its dried and powdered fine
Packed in jars, label
‘For healthy intestines’
From cottage industries to fancy malls
Travels the laborious hands
Indigenous beats thrives the lives
Who lives miles apart
Blessing of sustainable living gears up
Else the artificial life supports has been reserved for some.
Be indigestion or aciditic blocks,
Failing liver or rising sugar
Natural healer is the black plum.
Be it History, present or to come:
The land which still holds alive,
The beans of ancient gifted treasures
Among the many, Gumla comes along.
The land from where I belong!
Author: Sonali Gupta
Photo Nick Victor
Gumla, Jharkhand, India.
Sonali Gupta has currently completed Master’s from Centre for English Studies, JNU New Delhi India. She’s a poet from Gumla district, Jharkhand, India. Her area of interest are Identity and it’s assertion, Fading voices and history of minorities, Natya Shastra and Unheard voices of Tribles.
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