On the occasion of International Workers’ Day, here are three poems by Maliha Iqbal. The poems are a reminder of the hardships workers face. They cover a range of workers- from coal miners, garment industry workers to brass band workers and highlight the common thread of exploitation under capitalism.
Pinpricked Hands
She embroiders the
Most beautiful patterns
Her leathery hands
Weave together
Bright moons and stars
In the dingy little workroom
Where all of them
Squint over fabrics.
Spools of thread dissolve
Into the magic of
Her pin-pricked hands
And patterns glowing
Like fireflies at night
Emerge on the dresses
As the clock points
Towards midnight.
She knows she
Can never afford
The soft fabrics
That she holds
In her coarse hands.
Not all pain comes
With the force of a
Black hole that sucks
All your life force
Some pain comes
In the form of
Brightly colored dresses
That are taken away
From you the moment
They are made.
Cheerless Celebration
They are wearing
Bright red coats
Glittering golden belts
With gaudy wedding turbans
They stand out in the crowd
Even from a distance
But no one looks at them
As they melt into the background
Playing the mixture of brass instruments
That they have brought with them
As they came in the bus
To the wedding destination
And waited for hours
For people to get ready
They are blasting out loud music
As gaily dressed people dance
But their eyes are not closed
As one expects from a musician
Their face is not a peaceful mask
Filled with the joy of the music
That they are producing
They look tired
Their bright clothes
Cannot hide the dark circles
Their cheerful music
Cannot hide the hopelessness
As they came to earn
Something on top
Of their other petty jobs.
They watch the happy guests
They watch the fireworks
They watch the groom on horseback
But no celebratory mood
Seems to lighten their hearts
As they trudge back
Through the night
In their gaudy clothes
And hang up their instruments
On walls with chipping plaster
In desperate need of a
Fresh coat of paint.
Scarred People
Their faces are covered
In sweat and soot
Blurring out their features
Until they all look alike- machines
Machines that move the coal
Through narrow underground passages
Breathing in the dusty air
Feeling it blacken and congeal
Inside their lungs.
The ground beneath their feet
Is throbbing with the hollowness
As the trees were ripped apart
And the soil was scratched out
By the claws of a bull dozer
They are a scarred people
Working on a scarred land.
