We
the wives of a few bureaucrats
Turn
our face to you.
O
Lord, save us,
Devastated
in relaxation are we’
Wives
of a few bureaucrats.
O
Lord, husbands are
Divers
in the
bottomless sea of files
(
They alone know what they gather ),
We
are destitutes
through family planning:
Time
rolly by crushing us.
We
the wives of a few bureaucrats
From
dawn to dusk
On
the verge of some noble thought
And
the faded pages of fashion journals,
Movie
advertisements in dailies,
And
nude pictures
of health and beauty,
And
the sensation of a nearly achieved greatness.
Encroachment
of fat in the valley of the waist,
The
swelling of the belly, the double chin
Panicky
at breasts’ decline:
O
Lord, we gasp in the mausoleum of fat
We
the wives of a few bureaucrats.
Our
store is full of provisions.
Surplus
pocket money in the fold of our pillow,
Helen
Curtis in glass drawers,
Annie
Frenchmilk, Astringent,Deodorant,
Hand
Lotion, Revlon,
Christian
Dior and Rubenstein –
Obviously
middle-aged compensation
From
our husbands
For
the shortage of warm love.
Proud
of the salute of Orderlies
Obstructions
to others promotion,
Rejection
of applications
And
a few dignified signatures
Even
on getting back home.
Jealous
at the friend’s lift,
Profit
and loss of business run under another’s name
And
telephone
And
telephone
And
telephone.
The
Revlon our lips,
The
foundation cream
on our face,
The
careful beauty spot on our forehead grow dusty.
The
evening invitation gets old and stale.
And
then, O Lord
Thoughts
of the second man
Make
us restless for a moment.
The
old lover is married.
Young
adolescents’ aunt,
The
subordinates’ mother,
Granny
in the sister’s home,
And
the evening invitation old and stale.
On
the pages of the British magazine
Maggie’s
amour, Jaqueline’s hymn,
Flirtations
of Liz Taylor. BB’s bust,
And
Marylin’s suicide
And
suicide
And
suicide
And
the evening invitation.
And
then, O Lord,
Our
body insipid at night,
The
bloodless moon at the window;
The
used body ---snoring husband
Sleepless
night
And
tranquillizer.
O
Lord, with no other means left
We
turn our face to you;
Give
us some work, mirror in vanity bags,
Foundation
and lipstick, and social service.
Savage
criticism of kindergartens.
Or
the front row seat in ladies’ clubs,
Or
inauguration of the Child Clinic.
By
virtue of our husbands’ rank.
We
the wives of a few bureaucrats:
O
Lord, give us some work, anything at all
That
we may throw ourselves into its abyss.
Abdul
Ghani Hazari
; (1925-1976)
Poet,
translatior & Essaist.Poetry : Samanyo Dhan, (1959),
Surjer Siri (1965), Jgrata Pradipa (1970), Translation : Swarna Gardhv
(Translation of Aeschylus’ the Golden Ass- 1964), Belles Letters : Kalopechar
Dairy (1976), Freudder Monosamikshan (1975),
Awards: Bangla Academy Awards-1972, UNESCO, Award for the PoemAmra
Kotipoy Amlar Stri.