By a road in Allahabad
I saw a woman
breaking stones.
No tree to give her shade,
A dark skin,
Firm tightly cupped breasts,
Eyes fixed on the ground,
Thoughts of the night before
Going through her mind,
She brought down the heavy hammer
Again and again, as though it were
A weapon in her hand.
Across the road—
A row of trees, high walls,
The mansions of the rich.
The sun climbed the sky.
The height of summer.
Blinding heat, with the loo blowing hard,
Scorching everything in its path.
The earth under the feet
Like burning cotton wool,
The air full of dust and sparks.
It was getting to noon,
And she was still breaking stones.
As I watched,
She looked at me once,
Then at the houses opposite,
Then at her ragged clothes.
Seeing no one was around,
She met my eyes again
With eyes that spoke of pain
But not defeat.
Suddenly, there came the notes of a sitar,
Such as I had not heard before.
The next moment her young body
Quivered and as sweat
Trickled, down her face, she lifted
the hammer, resuming work,
As though to say
‘I’m breaking stones.’
Translated from the Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra