On
Mother’s death anniversary
my
thoughts turned to my memories.
Three
syllables clamoured in my blood
and
every sac of my body.
Scenes
floated up like islands,
luminous
with the laughter of
infancy
and childhood together,
such
as would make Aphrodite
indifferent
to even Zeus’ embrace,
the
glory of which was too great
for
Ethiopia or Olympus to sustain.
Now
here, on a juhu afternoon,
sunlight
is writing a story in verse ;
A
tale of birth and rebirth is shaping
on
my dark dry lips, the consequences of
which
is grief, tears, fountains, rivers
( 2 )
I
launched my ship on ship southern seas,
and,
my destination being unknown,
sailed
north to east, east to west,
southwest.
Through the fury of water
I
traversed ravines and mountain defiles
coming
at last to a shaded forest glade.
A
crystal clear spring flows here
beside
a narrow, subterranean opening.
( 3 )
This
may seam a tale very much like
Homer’s
account of Odysseus’ journey
to
Hades. But no, not so, hellish terrors
are
not for me to describe nor shall I tell
who
came running up to me, eager for news of
relatives
or friends or how heavily sorrow
weighed
on me as I related the fares of some.
( 4 )
No
sooner did I enter than the news of
my
coming did spread through the ether,
although
my journey to the underworld
was
inadvertent. It was as if I were a
messenger
from the gods and could rescue
and
restore to the regions of rain each
and
every suffering soul. When I saw them
my
eyes brimmed with tears of pity and pain.
In
my singularity I shook from head to foot
as
a ship, a tree or a stone is shaken by
the
wildness of storm and wind.
( 5 )
My
mother approached. She was worn and thin
and
pale. But no. I did not see my father.
Perhaps
he had forgotten the village, the house,
the
room, the children or it could be he was
busy,
absorbed in composing
srutis.
I
went down on my knees to my mother,
as
people kneel to recite the namaj
or
bow their heads on rugs of prayer.
Stripping
myself of every stitch of diffidence,
bare
bodied as a baby boy, I leapt in to her lap.
And
she whispered, as her hands rose reverently
between
her eyes, “May this child of mine,
son
of my country, thrive on milk and rice.”
( 6 )
It
was on my way back that my ship
broke
up. Mast, oars, deck boards
drifted
off. But on my hands rested
the
steady, quiet Helmsman’s Hand.
Daud
Haider
(1952--)
Poet
and Journalist. Poet : Janmai Amar Ajanma Pap (1974), Sampanna Manush Noi
(1975), Ami Bhalo Achhi Tumi (1976), Ei Shaone Parabase (1976), Pathorer Punthi
(1983).