What is this country’s gift?

 

             

                                

                        The smell of the soil makes you

                        Swell with lively zeal;

                        The first showers of the season

                        Make your heart dance like a pea-cock

                        With feathers full unfurled;

                        Whenever I touch my first morsel

                        I cannot but think of you;

                        Not a strip of cloth on your body

                        Not a handful of food to fill your stomach;

                       The crop you reap with hard toil

                       Will not reach your mouth;

                       Not a pair of shoes to protect your feet;

                       Not a blanket to guard you

                       From the bite of wild winter’s fangs;

                      This raw soil under your feet

                      Became your shoes and this sky

                     Became a blanket to cover your limbs;

                     You seem like a lone camel in the desert

                     Bearing a heavy burden;

                     Though you lack food

                     You gave manure to tend your crops;

                     You crushed your bones and shed your sweat

                     And made yourself a manure

                     To nourish this soil;

                     The seeds you planted grew into green life;

                     Famine falls to your lot

                     Due to drought or floods;

                    We claim the fruits

                    That should be yours;

                    To work quietly is your part

                    To strike, to protest, we claim as our right;

                    If you do the same, we suffer and can’t survive;

                    If you ask me downright

                  “What is your share?”

                   What can white-collared workers

                   Like me, answer

                   Except hang our heads down with shame?

                   You are the man who ploughs the soil

                   We claim the fruits of your hard toil;

                   You are the man who reaps the crop

                   We claim the crop as ours;

                   You sweat under the horrid heat

                   We rest beneath the cool shade

                   You burn with hunger

                   From overeating we suffer;

                  Name is yours;

                  Result is ours;

                 Work is yours

                 Words are ours;

                 Practice is yours

                 Precept is ours;

                If you open your third flaming eye

                If you rear your furrowing plough;

               Our sins will burst

               Our plunder will be out

               And turn to dust.

        *************************

    In Telugu: A.Surya Prakash  

   (EE Desham neekemi Ichchindi?)

   Translated by: G.Somaseshu           1st December 2024