Fugitive
People call me fugitive, so my heart aches.
Still I want to be a fierce salmon-trout into the tank of life.
Where will I flee when every night I feel
my beloved wife’s breath on my face and eyes?
Where and how will I hurry away
when I feel the wearied body of my baby on breast?
So I stand by the door all day long in favour of life.
When chickens coming out from henroost in the morning
move to the mire crowing feebly, I quickly get up from my bed
and cover the face of fire with my hands.
Didn’t I fearlessly jump into the water of the Bay of Bengal
when a tiny girl of the water-slaves suddenly got confined
to the waves going to search for the golden conch?
When my better-half embittered by the oppression of cockroaches
goes smashing the whole race of insects,
don’t I then make her delighted by praising her sari?
[Translated by Sayeed Abubakar]
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The Sound of Bathing
I don’t know how I, at this midnight, have become two eyes
having all my existence within me, as if they were
a pair of twin bees
sitting abreast on the tepid flesh.
Darkness walks both on my consciousness and unconsciousness.
Quick-shivering feelings of mine like the tongue of a snake
run away touching the shed of my blood.
It seems that melancholic parting moment of a boy
has been attached to all my senses. Affection of my mother
being the warm fragrant vapour
of my last food-plate collides with my nose.
Adieu, O Sight! O the born blind Past, don’t come near me.
O the trees, my dwelling house and river, be dark forever
and disappear like the songs of birds into the deep ever-bright green.
While walking ashore, suddenly I notice on the opposite bank
the body of day turning into a globe of light.
Making sonorous sounds of bathing at the staircase of wharf,
someone says to her companion, ‘See yonder a little boy walking
penetrating the deep fog. How can a mother send her child outside
in a morning of Magh cold such as?
Walking alone into fog— what a sight!’
My observation of birds’ flying and the day behind the river
turns to be something more than play.
Sweat grows on my smooth forehead. Dust gathers on knees.
By raising hands, it’s not possible now to hide the light.
Being lofty, the god of day has ascended the flaming sky.
The sound of water makes me realise it’s the sport of bathing.
The village girls, surrounding the wharf, say to one another
showing me, ‘Who’s that guy? Which village is he going to?
To some beautiful lady perhaps!’
When thirst dies, sweat becomes dry by the wind.
At last the birds of pastureland, exchanging eyes with one another,
fly away with their ruddy wings.
I feel tired. No sorrow, no solicitation, no thirst drives me more.
Even I don’t know which wharf I have reached now.
Having eighteen pitchers on waists, the village wives go back home.
Someone of them says in intense tune,
‘Who knows where this old passer-by will go crossing the dark bog?’
[Translated by Sayeed Abubakar from Sonali Kabin]
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Nature
How far Man has advanced!
Hypnotised by ceaseless shower
I am sitting on my own heels even today.
While planting the tender paddy seedlings
into the soil, thick and soft like khir, I thought
the soil to be my beloved wife who
like a piece of boggy land, uncovers all her fertility
with her pleasant watery shyness.
Fields getting wet in rain.
I feel a hand soaked in water on my back.
And losing all the feeling-marks of sense
I’ve made my benumbed sight remains vigilant.
All day long it rains incessantly everywhere
like the spell of khana. Silently I observe
the water-snakes running after fish
fleeing away beside the edge of fields;
the green grasshoppers leaping in fright on my arms.
It seems the graph of fields tied with ridges
having the touch of rain’s fog has changed suddenly
in trance of my dreams by an unbelievable magic spell;
and the beautiful earth has been divided
in the shape of a triangle.
From that geometry
the flocks of fish, birds, animals and humans
come out successively
and surrounding my sensation, start eating
picking up the contradictory foods.
[Translated by Sayeed Abubakar]
Translator’s Note: Khir: Porridge-like food, sweet and tasty. Khana: Astrological predictions.
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Heart-Penetrating Sight
Last night Death drove its hand into my room.
Through the gap of the window
that long hand, like the feeling-power of a blind man,
advanced a bit towards my bed.
My wife was pouring water on the head of our baby.
Her eyes were winkless as if they had been two pieces of a stone.
Her two breasts were swinging in weight of milk
as if they had been two ripe fruits.
The shower of water, like the sound of cascade,
spread shivers within everything.
The light of lantern started shivering just like the
feathers of a peacock.
And that hand, I noticed, came near the pillow
its pulse swollen, nails uncut and fur shaggy.
I wished I had shouted.
But in front of Death I can never make any sound.
My anger tempted me to grasp that hand.
But I knew well about the energy of Death.
Would I then pray to Him? No.
Death is deaf and fast like the horse of Chengiz Khan …
– Who? Who?
The shower of water suddenly stopped.
My wife stared at it.
There was only the waterless pot into her naked hands.
Buttons of her blouse set free.
In her tearless eyes, there was nothing
but a heart-penetrating sight.
I looked at Death and noticed
It’s retreating towards the window, rolled up like
the tail of a dog
its nails uncut, pulse swollen and fur shaggy.
[Translated by Sayeed Abubakar]
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The Shame of Return
To catch the last train I reached the station running.
I noticed the signal of blue light on.
The train, like Despair, suddenly left the station
playing on its cruel whistle.
They, with whom I was promised to go to city, got anxious
and started staring at me through the windows.
They only consoled me by shaking their hands.
While coming from home, I was goaded by my father
into hurrying off lest I should miss the train.
Mother said, ‘Don’t sleep tonight. Pass time
by reading books as you often do.’
But I fell asleep.
In a dreamless sleep I remained dead
on my bed.
But Jahanara never misses her train.
Forhad always reaches the station
half an hour ago. Laily sends her servant
with all her luggage to book a ticket.
Nahar never touches rice in excitement
before going anywhere.
But I’m one of their brothers, having walked seven
miles at a stretch,
trembling into fog at a dirty station late at night.
I have to go back home penetrating the white curtain of fog.
My trouser will get wet with dews.
And suddenly the red sun, diminishing the winter drops
gathered on my eyelids, will rise in the sky.
The sunrays will descend on my face and I, like a
defeated man,
will notice my ever known river in front of mine.
I will notice the scattered houses of my village.
The flock of cranes will fly away towards the bog.
Finally, like a horror, our old utchala will float
into my view, will float the small plantain garden.
Long leaves of the trees
will tremble saying, ‘Come not! Come not!’
My father, having noticed me, will set his eyes at
the holy Quran
and will recite– Fabi Aiyee Ala-ee-Rabbikuma Tukazziban.
Seeing me at the yard, my mother will smile happily
having unwashed plates in hands .
She will say, ‘It’s fine you have come back.
In your absence the whole house seems very lonely.
Go to the pond and wash your face.
Your breakfast ready.’
I will then, embracing my mother, wipe off
the shame of my return, rubbing again and again,
from my whole face.
[Translated by Sayeed Abubakar]
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Illustration : Najib Tarek
