He goes on with his
ironing –box of hunger
pressing wrinkles of life.
Who wakes up first?
He or the river bank?
Endlessly he strikes
At the wash-stone of life
With both hands.
On his bent back,
Bundles of clothes bulge
He – a bilge bulla making the rounds.
The earth carrying mountains
Becomes a ball, he with bundles
A hunch, a shrunk shank
No fame in his name,
His name is washerman
Whichever village he goes to
Well-known as washerman.
Wanting in clothes? Why!
All the soiled clothes are his
Taking a break of
A day or two?
A pair of scissors
At his daily wages.
A moving washing mechine he is
Washing the dirty linen of the village.
Blunt hands rubbing on soap after soap-
Pale skin peeling off, eaten by washing soda
Iracund indigo washing out wasted life
Soaking knee deep in water day after day-
He flip flops the dry blankets by evening,
Carries the tossed sandy life on shoulders.
Even a rugged rug twisted in winter
Becomes in his hands a fabulously folded
White dove fuddled in his hands
Dawn or dusk-
Breathes in he
Only the burning coals.
Bath at night, his mind
Counts the clothes by a
Hundred at a rupee or two
For each one washed and pressed.
His shining towel
With a knot of small change
Keeps on wiping the sweat
Of a relentless weird labour
He goes on with his
Ironing –box of hunger
Softening the crushed folds of life.
Sprinkling under the red- hot iron
A few cold drops of water,
He drinks beads of sweat
Increasing heat from cold
Lifting the heavy iron press.
………………………….
Telugu By K.Geeta
Translated By MO
