The Carpenter and the Bird

He was sawing logs

After spending several nights
in the damp jungle
he’d decided to do it
and now he was sawing logs

His saw often strayed
into the log’s roots
into its sleep
his saw often struck
a bird’s nest

He could feel
the flick of a squirrel’s tail
inside the log
he could hear growls
a tiger’s cubs were sleeping
inside the log
a bird had lost the seed
it had been pecking

At each stroke
his saw pulled the seed
out of the grain of the wood
and the seed dropped
from the saw’s teeth
and disappeared

He was sawing logs
and the world was falling down
on either side of his saw
like planks of wood

The seed
wasn’t outside the log
that’s why the bird was sure
it was still somewhere inside the wood

He was sawing logs
and the bird was somewhere
inside the wood
and it was shrieking

An Argument About Horses

The three of them were sitting in the sun
and arguing about horses

The horse is beautiful—the first one said
You’re wrong—the second one retorted
the horse is simply solid—very solid

The third man who’d been silent until then
said softly—It’s so solid
that you can’t argue about it

Why can’t we argue about it—the first one shouted
Of course we can argue about it—the second one agreed

The third man was silent
rather he was very pleased
flicking the ash from his cigarette he said—
But where is the horse?

So what if it isn’t here
at least we can argue about it
the first one said

We can argue about it
but I’m sad I haven’t seen a horse in so many years—
there was a strange kind of pain in the third man’s voice

There are fewer and fewer horses
the first one said

Right—the second one replied
that’s precisely the question
why are there fewer and fewer horses?

They’re sold off—the first one said

But who buys so many horses
the second one asked—
there must be statistics about this somewhere

There are—said the first one
emphasizing the are—
but we can’t get to see them

Why—why can’t we get to see them—
the second man was shaking

Because the horses trample down the statistics
the first one said

His voice was so faint
it seemed he wasn’t speaking to the others but only to himself

The third man who’d been silent all this while
screamed suddenly—
My friends
one day those statistics will rise
and trample down the horses

For a long time
after that
there was no more argument

Between Needle and Thread

My mother’s brooding on my loneliness
It isn’t raining now
but it could start at any moment
I have to go out
and she’s tight-lipped
because I have to

It’s certain that going out
will put her out of my mind
will make me forget
her bowl
her glass
make me completely forget
the white sari with a black border
that she and only she
in the whole wide world
wears

Winter will be here in a while
and I’ve noticed that when it’s cold
she bends over
a little closer to her shadow
Her thoughts about wool are harsh
about death are tender
About birds
she has nothing to say
even though in sleep she seems
so much like a bird

Whenever she’s weary
she picks up needle and thread
I’ve noticed that when
everybody else is asleep
her fingers ply the needle
late into the night
slowly—slowly—stitching time
as though it were
some frayed old kurta of mine
in need of repair

For the past sixty years
my mother has been squeezed between
a needle and a thread
even though she’s a loom
that has slowly—slowly—woven
length upon length
of this cloth of sixty years
so thick and coarse and dense

Words Don’t Die of Cold

Words don’t die of cold
they die from a lack of courage
Words often perish
because of humid weather

I once met
a word
that was like a bright red bird
in the swamp along the riverbank in my village
I brought it home
but as soon as we reached the wooden door-frame
it gave me
a strangely frightened look
and breathed its last

After that I started fearing words
If I ran into them I beat a hasty retreat
if I saw a hairy word dressed in brilliant colours
advancing towards me
I often simply shut my eyes

Slowly after a while
I started to enjoy this game
One day for no reason at all
I hit a beautiful word with a stone
while it hid
like a snake in a pile of chaff

I remember its lovely glittering eyes
down to this day

With the passage of time
my fear has diminished
When I encounter words today
we always end up asking after each other

Now I’ve come to know
many of their hiding-places
I’ve become familiar
with many of their varied colors
Now I know for instance
that the simplest words
are brown and beige
and the most destructive
are pale yellow and pink

Most often the words we save
for our saddest and heaviest moments
are the ones
that on the occasions meant for them
seem merely obscene

And what shall I do now
with the fact that I’ve found
perfectly useless words
that wear ugly colors
and lie discarded in the garbage
to be the most trustworthy
in moments of danger

It happened yesterday—
half a dozen healthy and attractive words
suddenly surrounded me
in a dark street
I lost my nerve—
For a while I stood before them
speechless
and drenched in sweat
Then I ran
I’d just lifted my foot in the air
when a tiny little word
bathed in blood
ran up to me from nowhere panting
and said—
‘Come, I’ll take you home’

In the Absence of God

What a wonder it is
that it’s only 10 a.m.
and the world’s business is already in full swing
        even without God
that the buses are all packed
that people are already frantic with haste
that the postman’s in the middle of his rounds
with his bag slung over his shoulder

Banks do open on time
the grass never stops growing
in the end everything—no matter how convoluted—
can be accounted for
those who have the will to live stay alive
those who wish to die pass away
        even in the absence of God

What a wonder it is
that the trains are running
even though they reach
some arbitrary station only late in the morning
that elections are still held
that planes continue to fly in the sky
        even without God

Even in the absence of God
horses go on neighing
the sea constantly synthesizes salt
a bird wanders aimlessly all day
and then returns with precision to its nest at night
        even in the absence of God

Even without God
my grief runs deep
that woman’s hair
is just as black as it was
when I loved her ten years ago
there’s as much tugging at my heart
each time I leave this house
as there is when I return

What a wonder it is
that this stream is a torrent
and that bridge over there
stands in the middle of the flow
with its arms raised to the heavens
        even in the absence of God

(Translated from the original Hindi by Vinay Dharwadker.)