Art: Samia Singh

Translated from Hindi by Monica Mody

23 October in the Diary

That day Aurangzeb was born

Lenin proposed armed struggle that day
That day the government of Azad Hind declared war against Britannia

That day we were thinking about our split personalities
about daily bread and the mix-up of dreams

Arguments were rife over development
over hopes of the future

When the sun set we sang hand in hand
Conversations that day went on until very late at night
An abundance of love was languidly collecting
It had been five says since the moon was full

A glimpse of the moon’s face and all at once wind had begun to blow
Deep that night for the first time we had stood stunned

In the diary this is right when 23 October deceased

I’m Not Witty

Witty folks
feel relieved after making comebacks

For them comebacks are ready
like rasgullas hidden in the magician’s tresses
Thereafter the magician must be washing his tresses
must once again be positioning rasgullas in readiness for the next show
I’m not witty
so could not tell a hero
correctly, at the correct time that his greatness
stinks of darkness a little
All my life I kept thinking
it was critical
to have said the correct thing at the correct time
If I said it right I said to a child
it’s not him who got hurt on falling down
but his earth
which is growing up with him little by little
If I said it right I said to a dream
please forgive me
I’ve kept you incomplete
despite really wanting to couldn’t be extraordinary
How amazing that I’m loved the most by
children and dreams

Another Woman

Another woman holding a bar soap is on bliss peak
Seated on cushioned chair, another woman stares seductively
Woman with exposed breasts sees me and smiles from the ad
A woman is rotating the phone dial and I think it is my number she is dialling

Mother has arrived having travelled six hours by bus
Mother cannot meet me, at night Woman is not allowed in the hostel

there

in there everywhere
people stood in mud
their blue veins throbbed
but unmoving they stood

they were born to be crushed
said the butchers
their fate cruel death
was the rioters’ war cry

there everywhere
black black rain fell
people wiped their bodies
towels began to leak blood

there everywhere
I was there so were you
in the drip drip of the black rain
watching foetuses being hacked
I was there
so were you

India is Awake

High beams collide with glass and bedazzle the eyes
I drive almost as if sightless
While returning I see that India is awake
My first concern is to reach home safely

To see awake India
is to get acquainted with the foundation of a human
The crawling city awakens
The crawling city’s outer precincts are becoming city precincts
India is crawling like an icky chameleon

When I reach home dawn is about to break
The backyard’s pint-sized forest comes in view on opening the window
like a corner of life left over by mistake
air left over by mistake
a few birds are left over here by mistake

It’s awake
left over in the backyard by mistake
India’s life

One Holds a Bowlful of Sand

One holds a bowlful of sand and shake-shake he’s scattering sand
A handful gathered in a spot are researching with a magazine’s torn pages
The littlest is reading the letters upside down
He’s found meanings others can’t savvy

This country is not worthy of them
This country’s good looking gentle folks are not worthy of them
At the moment they are dedicated researchers
looking for meanings in this meaningless brutal savage world
I say that meanings will one day rise from the very words
that are lying down before them today
I will not listen to anyone who calls them and their illiteracy beautiful
I say may they read on read on

After Reading the Poems of an Exiled Woman

I cannot write poems all the time
There are many jobs in the world I return from many conferences
I’ve tired in the attempt to avoid many people
Anyway cold’s clouds kept dropping on my head today

But I read your poems Taslima
sixteen poems of an exiled woman
I imagine you in the countries you’ve written

As you saw yourself traversing one country to the next
As you kissed yourself with a smattering of lips appeared from the crowd

I look at you Taslima
your body aged thirty-five
Think over and over
in the torment of not being able to write poetry
envy marveling who knows what else
go through me when I think you

Just one thing endures
a desire to love you to the heart’s content