Author: RA

A human

चाकू छुरियां

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नानी की रसोई में बस दो चाकू थे
सब्ज़ी काटने को, उसी रसोई में
एक खास जगह पर
नाना ने छुपा रखी थीं छुरियां, दस बारह ।
तकसीम बखत
आदम और सब्ज़ी
अलग अलग काटे जाते थे ।
एक चाकू, एक छुरी ने
सरहद पार कर ली थी
रसोई में।

My mother didn’t birth me

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My mother didn’t birth me, she said.
‘I plucked you from a tree,
a Papaya tree’,  she says.
‘It rained torrents that Chait night,
a storm raged, within and out
tearing apart all that came its way
our hut was blown, everything swept away
the tree shuddered, so did the fruits.
I spent the night clinging to the scarred trunk,
worried about our next meal,
a wild gale, then, bent the Papaya tree
I latched on to you while your siblings
fell apart. Bursting seedlings over my body.
With all my strength, I plucked you
the stem and branches bruised my hands and arms
streaks of blood trickled and covered your face
you, had a tender, pale skin.
Can you feel the scar on your forehead ?
That’s where my silver bracelet was lodged.
You weren’t ripe, not then.
Next morning, still trembling, I hid you
in the warmth of the last cloth on my body, thereon
you slept in my bosom, till
the first rain of Baisakh.
Your father, she said,
‘had gone seeding the fields’.
‘You are the fruit of my labour’, she said.