Father and My Birthday
Stretching wide his chest
my father readied the field, studded the boundary
with sal's saplings
nurtured them with his blood.
Along with the gagun, the simal, the badahar trees
I too took root,
raised my head high.
My father remembers
the first harvesting day
more vividly than my birthday.
Father is as old as the courtyard's parijat,
as firm as a rock.
The wayside pebbles, earthy songs,
the whistling thrush, the rafters of the ancient house,
the rhythmic gong of the primary school,
sweating, hurrying, panicking,
the god, the usurer, the locality,
An overall image of all these
dance before my eyes.
Father, the genesis of my universe,
the household primordial sound.
Father, the sun
around whose axis
rotate Mother, brothers, the neighbours.
Father, the unborn.
The ketaki bloomed in the garden.
I, on the portico.
A maze, an alder or a fig-tree
has no birthday
and neither have I.
My father does not know my birthday.
What I definitely know is
my features are gradually resembling
Even my temples are graying
in the same manner
as that of Father's.
My father had kept his graying hair gray
whereas I'm doing a black politics there.