MUSINGS OF A SOLIVAGANT

A Hub Of Raw Emotions

A busy ground in a small locality,
Bustling with people going about their work.
Tents with holes strung on one side,
Rows and rows of cheap blue plastic.
Shouts and haggles of shopkeepers,
Trying to outshout one another,
Their shops filled with coruscating jewellery.
Cheap tin with gold painting with plastic stones,
"Ten rupees a piece," the loudspeakers blare.
People jostle shoulder to shoulder,
Ladies trying to bag the best deal.
All sorts of women, head covered, hairs unkempt,
Sarees wrapped tightly, twisted and worn up,
And the malodorous suffocating atmosphere,
And yet a sense of belongingness.
Handloom dresses, woven bags of jute,
Jewellery of stone and wood, mud pots,
All so florid and yet so cheap,
But each bearing the essence of the soil,
An epitome of a rich culture, a richer heritage.
Stalls of 'pani puri' and 'bhel - chaat',
Or a sweating old peasant with corns.
People licking fingers and even palms,
Kids wailing for the balloons and toys,
Little cheap things with low quality battery.
People counting out pennies to pay.
Some little girl standing near a stall,
Dirty clothes, half naked, matted hair and,
Her eyes are eager, a little coin clutched in her palm.
And then comes the real 'ladies'
In their flashing cars, designer dresses,
With swathes of makeup caked on them.
They twitter and fitter and shout out loud,
And push aside everyone to make,
A cozy niche, unmindful of the stares.
They're unwelcome but yet they come.
They need something for their 'instagram'.
It's just hashtag #villagefair or maybe even,
Hashtag #goingorganic, as if ?
They jump on the handicraft and bargain,
Fighting to the seller's last breath, ganging up.
A few others make different poses, filters,
Different angles and lights and photogenic moments.
They smile perforce, they talk animatedly,
Everything seems fake around them.
Their raucous is ultimately ignored,
As the village children continue to shout more,
Go round and round in small rides,
And pick up a fallen ice cream to wash it and eat.
While the classy ladies eat less, scatter more.
They scrunch their noses and squint their eyes,
But still don't leave the fair.
And the fragile tents flutter wildly,
Making the entire bamboo structure rock.
But it steadies itself, holding itself high,
Just like the pretty village and the fair itself,
Self sufficient, a hub of raw feelings,
Still unmarred by the evils of civilization.

419 words completed. This poem is describing the atmosphere of a village fair in India 🇮🇳 and how shallow modernisation is. Written for a contest by WattpadPoetry