As
I turn the bend
I
find that the familiar houses and the field
have
turned into a strange foreign land.
The
summer breeze raised a cloud of dust
on
the road,
perhaps
the ancient banyan tree
roared
fiercely in the summer thunder-storm.
The
boys still enjoyed
their
festive picnic
on the old meadow,
or
perhaps water –plants flourished
in the marshy plains.
The
air was redolent
with
sweet-smelling flowers.
That
was the land of my parents,
of
my grand-grand-parents, too…
Youth
throbbing with joy, death
in
the smell of the earth,
in
loving good-will.
ii
Her
no banyan tree offered any shade,
no
wild thrones ever stung the feet either.
The
dear girls, friends of one’s youth, were all gone
The bank of the Rayel…
in
the shallow water trembled the picture
of a balustrade,
The
strains of a flute, a song…
Under
the hood of the bullock-cart
Quivered
the wealth of dusk.
Here…
here
there was nothing.
iii
No
wild thorns pricked one’s feet,
the
dear girls were all gone…
Sitting
in this strange alien country,
in
my heart I saw
my native land,
The
land of my parents,
of my grand-grand-parents too..
Translated by Kabir Choudhury
Hayat
Mamud
(1949--)