This poem, IMAGE, is a translation of ‘Prathime’ from Avadha (1986)
IMAGE
He came to the spot where
four roads met
and wept – and
kept on weeping.
Cars, buses,
heavy tarpaulin-covered trucks,
drove on nonstop.
The slow bullock carts too
kept on moving.
The sleeping city would wake up and
again go back to sleep in its
unperturbed lethargy,
amidst large garbage bins,
pigs in heat, and
trains that arrive from somewhere and depart.
Those sitting in the toddy shop,
women who had come to buy vegetables,
labourers waiting for work,
– none of them noticed.
Till mushrooms sprouted all around,
Till lilies grew;
The rain that came in unnoticed,
The breeze that sailed in over someone’s sigh,
The cold winter nights
– none of these touched him.
Nobody noticed when
he stood up all of a sudden;
he gathered himself,
he looked around,
started to say something,
stopped, as if wondering why should he,
and a smile that broke out hesitantly
like the secret sin in each one of us.
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