The following poem by Harshit Pratap from Lucknow was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020
i.
There is a little marigold plantation
In front of my house, across the road
A woman comes there
EVERYDAY
In her oddly draped saaree
With a sac dangling in front of it
Apparently, she “owns” the plantation.
And every day, she plucks marigolds,
Gold, orange, red.
One by one.
Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.
PLUCK. PLUCK.
P.L.U.C.K.!
Every time she does it, it hurts me.
Why haven't the flowers learnt
to not grow yet.
I wonder.
ii.
It's not like I don't understand
What happens to the marigolds
Once they are plucked.
They become.
Sometimes decoration,
Sometimes garlands,
Sometimes offerings
(divine or not).
And many would say,
Aren't those beautiful to be!
And they'd wither away anyway,
If they stayed on the plant,
For too long.
And that's exactly what I ask,
What's the point in growing,
If dying is what you'll do,
Eventually.
iii.
If we didn't have to wither,
Would growing be worth it?
Is eternity what we crave?
Well, far from it.
Who'd crave an eternity of pain?
Of being
plucked.
PLUCKED.
P.L.U.C.K.E.D.!
Who can guarantee me monotony?
Not that that's any better.
So, maybe the joy of life is
the joy of being
plucked
PLUCKED.
P.L.U.C.K.E.D.!
Some people don't see it,
Others don't mind.
I do and I ask.
Why haven't the flowers learnt
not to grow?
Yet.