Sourav Roy, translated by Carol Blaizy D’Souza
Home During Holidays
I set out for home during holidays
I set out for my home, my father’s home
I set out as much, as the home was mine
Once a year the home was my home
A room in the house
a table in the room
the light scattering off the table
the darkness pressed down under the table was mine
In the holidays the house had the time to take me in
And I had the time to let it take me
The house in which I wasn’t born,
did not grow up
was trying hard to be born,
to grow in me.
An aroma I liked was wafting from the house—
Postovada that I like must have been made
Fond talk will ensue
City boy in the village, wearing new clothes
Here I will be Raja Babu
I will search for the big aspects of small things
I will chat up children
Everybody will like me . . .
The road leading out of the house was my shadow
Calm, cool, dark, contorted
On the way, there were many potholes
Caught in the tangles of the everyday,
some I hadn’t known, some I had forgotten
that my holes had muck and not water
Walking on my shadow,
knocking the door of my house, I was thinking—
if an unknown person opened the door, what would I say?
My house
was entering
me.
(October 2013, Chakuliya)