Songs of Gond

I left the gigantic melancholy of the city behind and walked through the rocks towards the sea.

Crabs ran around crazily under the rocks tricking the fishermen who were trying to catch them.

Around me, inside invisible shells created by couples for themselves, faceless men and women became reflections of the city behind them. Reflections of repressed sexuality, loneliness and never ending lethargy.

Then I saw a face, facing the city where the bungalows of the rich stood like the trophies earned by the city..

It was Gond and he was singing.. The songs city never heard in the noise of traffic, festival load speakers and IPL matches..

Songs of his Gond gods from hills, rivers and trees..
Songs of his grand fathers and grand mothers..
Songs of brothers who were forced to fight each other..
Songs of the son of poor farmer who was send to burn Ghond village ..
Songs of pictures painted in the walls of Gond houses with the blood of the sons of farmers and adivasis..

He sang to the city which is fattening with flesh, blood and tears of his tribe..

The city which filled the pores of the jungle flowers with cement dust..
The city which told him that his dance, music and gods are vulgar..
The city which found creams to cure his dark skin..
The city which gave him dreams which he could not understand..
The city which called him a traitor for defending his last bit of land..
The city of faceless people..

I walked fast towards the road looking for a taxi to reach the comfortable slavery of my laptop.