She has forgotten something



She has forgotten something.
Or so she thinks as a way of life.

As she stands worried and panting
by the wayside
having missed her usual bus,
an endless train of anxieties running on coal
rushes across her mind roaring,
her lapses looking in her face
from each passing window.
What is that she's left undone?
Didn't turn off gas cylinder?
Didn't put latch in place on rear side door?
Fan in bedroom not switched off?
Or is it her little son's home work?
Or may be she hasn't given her man
his kerchief he has to lose in the bar.

No. Nothing of that sort.
But sure something she has forgotten.
She can't gather that old face of hers
always red with memories.

She has forgotten something.
In files while hurriedly leaving office?
Or in her column in the attendance register?
On the bench at the vegetable vendor's
in the street?

No. Never.
Never does she forgot anything.
Except of course herself.
00
[Translated by K.V.Subrahmanyan]

O

Oh My God

If at all there is a temple
built of silence
and even a mirror isn't shrined!

I would dig you up
from the vedas,
from hymns,
from your thousand names,
from icons of clay, stone or wood-waste,
from forms and formless,
from prejudices of mysterious rituals,
oral and organic,
from the unconcious,
from the rich, soft and temder blood of
my slain brother,
from prisons my ego has locked up.

I would safe you.
You that all trees, weeds and worms
soak and revel in.

And shrine you, my god,
in that temple of silence
where tears from within light up lamps
and go home, never to come back again.
For I love you,
the great nothingness that you are,
as much as I love myself.
00
from thr
[Translated by K.V.Subrahmanyan]