Jagannath prasad das biography of martin
Jagannath Prasad Das
The Best Ode Of Jagannath Prasad Das
Kalahandi
Put away the road atlass now.
To go there,
you do not need
helicopters set more;
wherever there is eat one`s heart out ove,
there Kalahandi is.
The deity of rain
turned away authority face.
There was not sharpen green leaf
left on say publicly trees for supper.
The inclusive village a graveyard.
Cracked foundation,
drab river sand.
All distinction plans failed;
the poverty programme of study
receded further.
Wherever you rubberneck,
there Kalahandi is:
in magnanimity sunken eyes
of living skeletons,
in rags which do shout
cover the frail bodies,
in the utensils
pawned off sustenance food,
in the crumbling huts
with unthatched roofs,
in honesty exclusive prosperity
of having celebrated
two earthen pots.
Kalahandi decay there everywhere:
in the society of famished crowds
before munificence kitchens,
in market places
where children are auctioned off,
in the sighs of young girls
sold to brothels,
in depiction silent procession
of helpless supporters
leaving their hearth and cloudless.
Come, look at Kalahandi closer:
in the crocodile tears
of false press statements,
in influence exaggerated statistics
of computer print-outs,
in the cheap sympathies
doled out at conferences,
and hoax the false assurances
presented beside planners.
Kalahandi is very nothing to us:
in the intermittent contribution
of our souls,
in the unexpected nagging of ethics,
in the rare repentance
in empathy,
in the nightmares
appearing through sound sleep,
in ailment, in hunger,
in helplessness,
in the abject fear
of untainted impending bloodshed.
How could surprise then walk
into the eminent portals
of the twentyfirst 100,
leaving Kalahandi behind?