Children are easy to boss-over, be forced into labour, terrorized into submission, and cajoled into exploitation, because they are vulnerable, weak, unable to protect themselves, and dependant on their elders for sustenance. Moreover they are naïve, gullible, and most of all blissfully ignorant (and thank God for that) of their rights as citizens of this world and inheritors of our tomorrow. No wonder, there is hardly a place on this earth/or an era in history, where child-labour does/did not exist. There is hardly any sphere in life, where children are not exploited, be it domestic workers, plantation-employees or industrial helpers, children everywhere are either forced into labour or lured and cajoled into exploitation of all creed and manner.

Their exact number is difficult to estimate, as they go mostly unreported, unregistered, and are hidden for obvious reasons. The official estimated figures, however, stand at a shocking 12, 5 million in the age group of four to fourteen in India alone, and this is just the tip of the iceberg. Carpet-Weavers of Mirzapur, Tea-Plantation workers of Darjeeling, Zari-workers of Banaras, Embroidery-unit labourers in Delhi, Lock-Factory workers of Aligarh, Silver-Needle factory workers, match-factory workers, and the list goes on…children are employed everywhere for a meager salary, and sometimes ‘for-free’, under the pretext of being ‘taught the trade’. As the world marked the 12th of June as the “World Against Child Labour Day”, I helplessly watched children working at car-mechanic’s, tailor’s, tea-vendor’s, and at retailer’s shops; working day-in and day-out, being kicked, scolded and beaten-up into submission and labour, sometimes, beyond their capacity. It is hard not to get appalled by this state of affairs, more so because people (especially employees), are insensitive to the plight of these children, and take it as the order of the day.

I would like to share here a series of short poems, I wrote under the common heading of “Children of Lesser God-the Bonded Labourers”.

The Girl in Red

Carpet Weavers

He breathes the same fiber
That he weaves
Into a carpet of beauty with ease
The carpet adorns the floors of those,
Who trample it under their feet
The fiber settles in his lungs
In a pattern, quite similar
To the one he weaves,
It cannot be seen,
But, it can be heard,
In every breath of his
In every wheeze;

He weaves his childhood
Into that carpet:
His dreams into its patterns,
His blood and sweat into
Every one of its knots,
His soul into its warmth,
He weaves his heart
Into each flower,
His freedom into
The wings of each bird in flight,
His blood colours
The red of every rose,
His sweat the yellow of each lily,
His innocence he weaves
Into softness of each bud,
His nights, in the blackness
Of the background.
And where do his tears go?
They dry-up as he begins to grow-
Old and haggard,
Long before his time-
His skin, not so soft,
As the carpet fine,
But a rough torn rug,
Trampled by Time,
That has lost its shine…

So,
When you step next
On that rug,
Don’t be smug!
Think!
There might be a childhood
Woven in that rug…

Note: The carpet-fibers get deposited into the lungs, causing pneumoconiosis, a form of interstitial fibrosis of the lungs, giving rise to shrinkage of lungs, reducing their vital capacity, and causing breathlessness and wheezing.

No Problem!

Stone Breaker

He breaks stones
With his tiny hands,
Under the scorching sun
By the dusty road,
The chips of the stones,
The grains of hot sand,
Mottle his young lungs-
Depositing into a mosaic of disease-
That he can hardly breathe with ease,

While his calloused hands,
Tell his tale with ease…

The stones that he has broken,
Lie embedded in the road,
Trampled by the multitude;
The road stands for years,
About the child,
I have my fears…

Note: Stone-dust, when inhaled into the lungs, causes Silicosis, another form of Pneumoconiosis.

Young Girl With Firewood

Silver-Needle Factory Worker

The silver that brightens the needles-
In the factory that he works-
Pokes deep into his tiny being,
Giving cramps in his belly,
Pricking sensation in his thighs,
Driving him to near blindness
To stupor and deafness…
‘My salvation?’-His outcry!
While, his escape from this drudgery,
Is,
Like getting-through-the-needle’s-eye…

Note: These children get afflicted with. Mercury-Poisoning.

My Brother, My Son!

Match-Factory Worker

He works in a match factory,
That little boy;
The gun-powder in
The match-stick-head,
Burns deep into his soul,
Burning the desires of his childhood,
The dreams of his boyhood,
The scorching burns to the core,
The sorrow burns him to the socket…

And one day,
He is blown-up!
In the factory-fire!
-The end of his desire…

Note: The dangers of working with gun-powder are obvious.

Jahangir, the Tea Shop Boy.

Little Boy Beggar on the Street

He begs in the street,
That young boy by the fire,
To quench the collective fire
Of his family’s belly;

Crippled-
Sometimes by intention-
Much against his desire,
To cash upon the pity,
Of the world entire;

He feeds his family
And goes to sleep,
On a half-filled stomach
Much to his ire

He is the child on the street,
Alone in this world entire…

And sometimes,
He is picked up,
By a peddler of drugs,
Who makes him an addict,
Blackmails him into peddling,
His blood, filled with the poison,
He sinks into quagmire
Of disease, addiction, exploitation
And quenching of desire
Of lusty men and ‘sire’
To whom he is ‘supplied’
On beaches,
In dingy ‘ghettos’
And in bars-
To some ‘debonair’

He doesn’t reach maturity,
And dies in the street-
On a cold friendless night,
By some dying fire.

This boy on the street,
Alone in this world entire…

Note: Goa’s Beach-Boys are famous.


These poems may not be re-produced without express permission of the author.


Copyright ©2002 Zoya Zaidi. About The Author