Song of the Indian Peasant

(Translated by Hiralal Godiwala from the original Gujarati poem)

Ours is the life of the peasant–
What a life!
People sing songs about him;
Newspapers write headlines about him;
Aye, and story-tellers tell stories of his life.
Leave aside all this bunkum about the villages–
Their much-vaunted bliss!
O, there’s so much hell-fire beneath that happiness.
We grow rice–
Plenty of rice–
And heap it up in hillocks.
The tax-collector takes it away;
And the rest is removed by the money-lender.
With hungry eyes, waiting, the woman abides–
Keeps on waiting;
And, O, the peasant returns home empty-handed.
We have a berry-tree in front of our cottage–
Sweet berries:
The whole countryside knows about them.
The policeman has them;
And the rest goes to the money-lender.
Only my kids remain at home crying;
They never get a taste of them.
O, how I sometimes wish I could cut the tree
On the outskirts of our village there are hills–
Fine hills and a flowing river.
People often go there
For change of air,
For a month or two’s stay.
But when the rains come they go their way,
And the floods come in the river–
Such heavy floods!
The banks are broken,
And, oh, the whole rich, ripe crop is washed away.
We grow cotton–
Lots of it;
Surely it would fetch a couple of hundred rupees.
But the lawyer takes it away;
And the rest goes to the doctor.
In spite of cotton growing in our fields,
The spinning-wheel lies idle in a corner,
And covered with dust,
And, O, my body remains uncovered.
We have a cow in our house–
A sweet, dear cow.
Her milk is always in great demand.
The headman has it;
And the circuit-officers on tour must always have a drop.
Only my stomach would have to swallow,
Grumblingly,
Dry crusts of bread.
And. O, the others always have
Fine bread with milk.