(Remembering Nitya Dutta, poet and police officer, killed by insurgent.)
No, not while the drill of breathing was on,
but trooped in now that he is dead
to plant cut flowers at his feet.
He was not in uniform then,
not at one with the drills,
the uniform, the routine …
We’d know a man from the uniform he wears.
Poetry disdains that alien garb
Yet we’d anoint the naked body of truth
and surrender to the explosions.
In that crucial act Caesar was flanked by Brutus
As Jesus by two unwary thieves
For what will never occur again
I want spread out my arms on nails
to die this once, then again, again …
(Translated by: Pradip Acharya)