Seventeen years

seventeen years ago
your mom sits in a bus
holding you in her arms…
lying on her shoulder
you speak an unknown sweet tongue...
a man stressed for money
for his wife with a heart condition
sits lost in contemplation in the seat behind…
his wife sits looking out…
a farmer returning unsuccessfully
after seeking government aid
after floods had robbed him
of his home and crops too sits beside...
and your sweet mumbling gently fills the bus
that is already full
of close kins of sufferings of all sorts…
your tiny fingers
grab the flying locks
of a mom sitting nearby;
and she sits smiling at you
forgetful of her troubles,
her eyes and ears wide open
so as not to miss any sound
that would fall from your lips…
to one who had lost her heart
to the apprehensions of death,
you offered a smile.
She was a tree struck by long draught
stripped of leaves and buds…
in your smile, flowering all over
as a mother
she shows you to her man,
and he too sits gazing at you...
enchanting the bus
with your joyous innocence
right from Delhi
to your village
you leave
lying on your mom’s shoulder...
after seventeen years
in a similar bus
along with your friends
you molest a girl,
you strip her ignoring her appeal,
you thrust an iron rod
piercing her private part;
when she writhes and wriggles
in death throes
you squeeze the last drop too from her
till, at last,
you hurl her naked body out on the road
leaving her to the inevitable fate…
oh, juvenile delinquent!
the lady with the heart condition,
her husband,
the man who lost everything to flood,
all of them from that old bus
ask your innocent face in one voice,
what these seventeen years
have actually done to you...
can the honeyed mumbling
that drips from your lips
ever give an answer?

TRANSLATION : VENUGOPALAN K.B