বেবাক ফন্দী

By Gayatri Bose

Dead graves with discolored, wrinkled, shriveled faces –

Trees, birds, vines are scattered here and there,

The lone teenager stopped while walking hand in hand –

Seeing his own shadow,

He comes back a little, and immediately his shadow comes too –

thinks himself tall as a sal tree–

Grasshoppers fly around him,

I know it will rain, I hold the boy’s hand and say – let’s go back home, don’t see the rain.

Kishore laughs, says – ‘Gore soil on my bones, stand up and wash first.

I wipe the bones with the white cloth of the shroud,

In the dry afternoon sun, the skin of the teenager’s body cracks,

The soil of the grave began to crack,

I see – be silent,

I don’t know how long, I haven’t combed my hair,

A teenager’s hair has no oil, dry, dusty cultivation,

Yet the soil of the grave and the youth laugh, talk, dig the soil and pick the pebbles,

The soil of the grave is mixed with manure,

After a while the youth fell asleep beside the grave,

I stay awake

After a sky pale Jyotsna comes again morning –

I see a new dead body has come out of the grave.

The youth is reborn, his hair is untangled,

A young man with jet-black hair is smiling, resting his hand on the ground on the corpse’s shoulder.

I look and look and keep quiet, just keep quiet..

By Gayatri Bose