This is the year
Of my mother’s glance up through the water
At all of us
Submitting the joys and sorrows of sixty-eight years to the Machhu
River.
This is the year
Of of my brother’s last scream
Hoarding his twenty-three years in the flood waters
Overflowing in his sparkling eyes and shining shoes.
This is the year
That made
Study Literature Politics Ideologies
Understanding Intelligence Wisdom stammer.
How can I explain to my son
Lighting the courtyard of my parents’ house
That I am being pounded, pounded
At every step I take within this house?
This is the year
Of the invisible scene hanging
Between
The mood of my ten-year-old son
And
My devastation.
This is the year
Of the thirst of the shameless
Deranged river.
Translated from the Gujarati by the author