That river that taught me to swim
Is not even there any more.
Sometimes I stroke my own skin and think,
Did I really once dip my head in those waters and float upon
it?
The flowers of the jamrul
used to shower down gently
Just like close family, standing before my house with arms
spread wide.
A brown bird with a long tail would come and sit often
I don’t quite know its name, people called it Ishtikutum.
I do not see those birds any more
Even the tree fades each day a little.
They sell the fruit on the pavement, I have never touched
one, ever.
In the evenings after her bath, a woman walked by, her skin
still wet.
Binti, I called her aunt….. from next door
That was the first time I saw a woman
Waist narrowing like a lioness, young grapefruit
Her heavy breasts.
Shapely like a violin in motion, her behind swayed to each
step
Making me think she was a goddess descended from the heavens
She was the one who aroused a young boy’s
Primal desire.
She set herself on fire one day and disappeared
But I still burn in that searing heat.
The kitchen on one side, on the other a grandmother lived
The space left in the courtyard was where the birthing room
was made.
There was so much rain, one lightning filled dawn
I arrived on this earth from the darkness of my mother’s
womb
To see for the first time the blue morning light of rural
Bengal
A little over there near the big room sat my grandfather
Hookah in hand.
He roared with laughter as he heard my newborn cries.
There is no one left to tell these stories
Where is that house? Like faded illusion
Lost is that kitchen, the courtyard, where my grandfather
sat, nothing remains.
Someone ploughs seed into the earth of my once-upon home
Green heads of rice snake up.
Now that my birthplace is gone, I sometimes think
Was I ever really born?
Sunil Gangopadhyay
