Cloth of Tails


In the realm of death the Tribe brothers sleep,

I think continuously of those who were truly environmentalists.

Who, from the chamber of woods, remembered the soul’s mystery

Through the chronicles of history where miles are burned

Pages are turned endlessly and churned.

Whose admirable ambition

Was that their feet’s, still beats with rhythm,

Should ring the ethos tic, array from head to toe

 The mandar rapped with a Red cloth, beats

Their bare bodies shreds the sweats as the tears drops went unseen.

The helplessness falling across their own feet’s

As it can’t penetrate the air conditioned rooms of the VIP’S.

Their hand offering the blossoms,

Welcoming bulldozers!

Turned out to be a New ‘normal’ sting.

What is precious is to hold forever

The hereditary bewitch the blood drawn from aging wooden feet’s

Melting the ore of yarns in spaces before our civilized world.

The scripted walls, the stones craved with pictorials epics

The oldest publishers of History, were it thrived and


Not the Masters, but the saviour of Mother indeed!

Never to deny the pleasure in their simple beautiful life

Or their organic functioning ways.

There rich graves pound over a trillion shades

Each passed on souls rewarded us with the Hope,

Under which they never sleep, there bequest

The Trees!

Even allowed the traffic of ants to rail over there ways

The homes of tribes, a constitutional space for living beings

We live and let others live!

The cracked pots placed around the outfacing walls of the house

Where the birds rest, feed and breed.

With noise of frogs and crickets the night sleeps.

Near the river, near the moon, in the highest hills

Saw how these feted archives of tall trees

And the streamer of green grass

And the whispering water rolling over gravity thrills.

The name of thousand who’s

Their life fought for lives

Whose pyre still holds the Fire,

Of the ever revolving Centre.

Born of mud they travelled a journey towards the dust,

And let the truth of life signed with their rejuvenating pride!





Author: Sonali Gupta

Gumla, Jharkhand, India

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Mandar – Musical instrument made of parchment, leather and rice paste. This folk instrument is used by tribles in different parts of India. This bifacial drum is majorly used in group singing or dancing for rhythmic accompaniment.  


The prominent themes of this poetry include the condition of tribles in a capitalist society, the situation of Adivasi (trible) people, organized crime, tension between traditionalism and modernity, the socio- economic damage caused by mining, capturing of their lands and forceful displacements of tribles in name of development, industrialization without a sustainable graph. Where the livelihood, lavish history of tribles is uprooted and buried and the estate wants these tribles to perform there folk in the inauguration ceremonies of these capitalist projects which aim to dismantle their home. The State forces them to welcome them through their cultural performance as to make it seem a frame of sustainable reality for all. This poem pours the rich history and culture of tribles through the passing sand of the hour glass.

































Pencil thin mustache


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