I am not the first one
to have penned a poem on water.
Can’t even think
why all life and matter
and the seven stars
are dragged in a boat
by a horned fish.
To bathe myself
still I lift a lota of water
and Kolimon,
his body all glossy,
axes wood for a pyre.
Fixed was the premium
of my life insurance
in proportion with
my age, height and weight.
What I earned was grief
and I dreamt
of building a home on a hilltop.
Why does it happen to me!
A man as tall as 5 feet 6 inches
and I don’t remember a name
of the six of Sharpeville.
I haven’t seen the two pens
used by the duo in signing
the Moscow pact.
Still I have seen
from near the newly made Buddha
beside the peace tower
built in the war site of Kalinga
the darkness tearing apart
the heart of Jaffna
and the dirt of the Golden Temple.
I haven’t thought of
another birth for poetry.
Not even have I thought of
a smallish foreign pen.
Police did seize my license
in a no entry zone last week.
(When did the last week begin
and how long it has been
since a watch stopped adorning
the time’s hand)
He and I together
look at each other’s face
even as our photo gets blurred
so much so that
we don’t even recognise it.
How long we have been walking
this forbidden lane!
The word ‘sudden’
is sudden no longer.
And as I come up
with my poetry notebook
(From where is the bottom of the sea
and the height of the hills)
I see all around the sky.
Still to my feet
remains stuck
a little soil.
(Translated by Ritwik Chakravarty)
