Sourav Roy, translated by Carol Blaizy D’Souza
Sleeping Daughter
In my lap
the sea is brimming.
Fish that have swum from the deep
seabed to the surface, ready to leap
are the curiosity of your eyes
Who in their absent mindedness know—
the moon is nothing more
than a play rattle.
There was no poem in your arrival
I was shivering
Like a solitary blade of grass shivers
before the breaking of rain
Having arrived in my city
I was relentlessly running
Crashing DA DA DA
into potholes on the street
On the hospital bed
somewhere behind the clouds
after eighteen hours of labour
your head had peaked out
World’s most clear and delicate thing
With determination etched on your face
And fatigue
and relief . . .
You were the tiniest in the room
Which had scared everybody
Wrapped in a soft tartan towel
you are now safe
Filled with milk
Burping, hiccupping
growing ceaselessly
You squint at me
Holding my finger you ask
me my introduction.
A tree has grown
in my heart.
The imprints of your feet
flit like butterflies in my arms
In your own tongue you are explaining to me
what the djinn want
in magic stories
That crying without tears
is the best kind of crying
That on this uneven globe
there is no level ground as the lap
On the bobbing head
eyes remain fixed, unblinking
You spin the fingers of both your hands
in the air, making a model of a time-machine
Having half-explained which
You fall asleep
It has sunk in my arms
like wet earth,
your sleep.
(July 2018, when Mrida turned a month old)