sa stáisiún traenach beag seo.
An t-am sin idir luí na gréine
agus spéir mhonsúin – dubh ar fad.
Is tagann na díoltóirí ansin, ag siúl
suas síos feadh an ardáin
in aice leis an traein seo.
‘Caife, caife, caife, caife . . .’
a scairteann fear feosaí – agus cupán
á cheannach agam is ansin ceann eile –
‘Caife, caife, caife, caife . . .’
trí bharraí na fuinneoige.
Ní dhéanann margáil ar bith, ní ardaíonn an praghas –
Glacann sé leis gur thugas an tsuim cheart dó.
Fan, fan! is mian liom a rá leis, ná creid mise, ná
creid éinne – Ach as go brách leis –
‘Caife, caife, caife, caife . . .’ a chantain
ag teacht ó dhomhan eile cheana féin –
É ag stánadh roimhe, ag féachaint áit éigin
san imigéin, lastall den traein –
Agus féachaimse ar na súile mearbhlacha aige: dearg, lasta –
Ach fócasaithe ar a shon san, ait go leor –
Is caipíní a shúl: dearg, ata –
mar sin féin, tá an aghaidh suaimhneach – sea
is aghaidh bheag shuaimhneach í.
Féachann sé ar an spéir
faoi mar a bheadh rud éigin á lorg aige.
Bogann néalta go mall,
ag sleamhnú thar a chéile
mar ainmhithe móra,
fós marbhánta i ndiaidh dóibh dúiseacht
as tromshuan –
Bogann na scamaill níos faide óna chéile –
Is go tobann: réaltaí –
réaltaí atá chomh lonrach sin
mar a bheidís trí thine, ar tí
pléascadh ba dhóigh leat
neomat ar bith –
Féachann sé ar an spéir –
Cá bhfios cad a chreideann sé.
Cá bhfios cad is brí le solas na réaltaí dósan.
Sujata Bhatt
Coffee
The signs are mostly in Tamilat this tiny railway station
It is the time between sunset
and a completely black monsoon sky.
And then the vendors come, walking
back and forth along the platform
beside this train.
‘Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee . . .’
an old man cries out – even as I buy
a cup and then another –
‘Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee . . .’
through the bars of the window.
He doesn’t bargain, doesn’t raise his price –
Trusts the amount I give is correct.
Wait, wait! I’m about to say, don’t trust me, don’t
trust anyone – But there he goes –
‘Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee . . .’ he continues
calling as if he lived beyond this world already –
He stares ahead, looking somewhere
into the distance, beyond the train –
And I look at his dazed eyes: red, feverish –
yet strangely focused –
and his eyelids: red, swollen –
but still, his face is quiet – yes
it is a small, quiet face.
He looks at the sky
as if he’s searching for something.
Clouds move slowly,
sliding across each other
like large beasts,
still sluggish as they awaken
from a deep sleep- -
The clouds move further and further apart –
And suddenly: stars –
stars of such brightness
as if they’re on fire, as if
they’ll explode
any moment –
He looks at the sky –
Who knows what he believes.
Who knows what starlight means to him.