Beyond Land and Time

Night

(Rātri)

Translated by Clinton B. Seely

Lepers open the hydrant and lap some water.

Or maybe that hydrant was already broken.

Now at midnight they descend upon the city in droves.

Scattering sloshing petrol. Though ever careful,

Someone seems to have taken a serious spill in the water.

Three rickshaws trot off, fading into the last gaslight,

I turn off, leave Phear Lane, defiantly

Walk for miles, stop beside a wall

On Bentinck Street, at Territti Bazar,

There in the air dry as roasted peanuts.

The warmth of intoxicating light kisses my cheek.

Smell of kerosene, lumber, shellac, gunny, leather

Blending with the hum of dynamos

Draws taut the bowstring.

Draws taut the dead and conscious worlds,

Draws taut life’s bowstring.

How long ago did Maitreyi chant her lines of verse,

Or immortal Attila conquer kingdoms?

Even now, from an upper window, half asleep, a Jew

Sings in her inimitable style.

Our forefathers smile to think of what we call song—

And what we call gold mines, oil wells, and paper mills.

Several Anglo lads stroll by, dressed smartly.

A grinning Negro leans casually against a post,

Cleaning the briar pipe he holds in his hand

With the confidence of an old gorilla.

To him the great night of the city seems

Like the jungles of Libya.

The animals, however, are orderly, overpaid,

And indeed wear clothes, out of modesty.