Lynn Aarti Chandhok Girls in the Paddy
"We live these days as on a different planet"
—Derek Mahon
These girls are real.
A different planet, yes,
or just the other side of ours
where garnet-deep banana flowers
above the fields arrest
the eye untilthe real jewels writhe
and glimmer—scattered stones
tossed on the paddy, working there
in clusters, necklace rows—a pair
looks up to wave. Each owns
a proper scythefor proper work:
tending to this year's food.
From far off they are only specks
on which the modern mind projects
the sort of long-lost "Good
Life" now gone darkfor those of us
who, riding past, will stop
to photograph and then move on.
Once, you should change your plan, and when
you do, and linger, hope
the brilliant dresswill talk to you.
She is no painting. She
is what the photo cannot tell:
gray silted feet, a reckless smile.
She laughs and shouts Didi!
Niche ajow!Sister! Come down!
And you should go—have faith
or courage that it would be fine
to labor with her in that green,
green sunlit swamp. The truth
is that we "glean"first in the field.
Mothers and sisters laugh,
moving their row, preening, attuned
to each blade's need. Reach down to find
your ever-sought, plain proof
briefly revealed.You'll want to stay.
Still ankle-deep in mud,
she'll wish you well, vaguely aware
that something's changed, that stopping here
you've bridged a gap, you've tried
another wayand found it just
another sort of life—
not primitive, exotic, or
more real, harder, or easier
than yours, not without strife.
Move on. You must.At night, the rain
will find you sheltered, dreaming
of purple jewels, translucent green,
another girl you've met or seen
whose life is perfect-seeming,
who feels no pain.