Father’s instant imminent death…
1.
Walking, scorpion-like, on his hands
Playfully walking on stilts with big children
And post-retirement, the stroke
Derailing his life
2.
Nor in his body
Unaware when half a morsel
Fell to the ground
Losing his balance, unknowingly
Collapsing while seated
His speech so often incomprehensible to us
3.
A sick man, weary of life
And, seeing him live like this
Wearing down slowly
Moment by moment
We too, were soon sick of it all
4.
Whenever the phone rings unexpectedly
Always fearing this to be the harbinger
Of my father’s death
Or news that he has fallen where he stood
Shuddering disturbingly
Rolling his eyes, collapsed in the hall
While Mai is busy in the kitchen
And cracked his skull
The blood flowing
How could my perplexed mother
Make the connection
Between Father, motionless by the sofa
And his brain—slithered under the table
Or maybe, having collapsed in the toilet
His brain floating, sploshed in the pot
And, as if by rote, Mai unattentively
Pulling the flush
What will happen to my brain
5.
My father should have a quick death
Without him even realizing it
6.
Father, sitting in his easy chair
Watching cricket
So pleased with India’s victory
That he died in an instant
Just like I had imagined
Without anyone realizing it
[English version: Mustansir Dalvi]
M’athair ar tí bás tobann a fháil . . .
1.
Ag siúl ar chosa croise go spraíúil le páistí móra
Agus an stróc a bhuail é tar éis éirí as
A chuir a shaol bun os cionn
2.
Ná ina cholainn
Ní fhaca sé an blúire bia
A thit ar an urlár
Nuair a baineadh dá chothrom é, gan fhios dó féin
Ag titim ina phleist is é ina shuí
Ba mhinic nár thuigeamar ach corrfhocal uaidh
3.
Agus, nuair ba léir dúinn
An meath mall
Nóiméad i ndiaidh nóiméid
Bhíomarna, leis, bréan den rud ar fad
4.
Anois, dúisím de phreib
Má ghlaonn an guthán gan choinne
Agus eagla orm i gcónaí gurb é teachtaire
An bháis é
Nó gur thit sé as a sheasamh
É ar crith, scanrúil,
Na súile ag casadh, sínte sa halla
Agus Mai gnóthach sa chistin
A bhlaosc scoilte
Ag cur fola go tréan
Conas a dhéanfadh mo mháthair chráite
An ceangal idir m’Athair, ar an tolg gan chorraí
Agus a inchinn a sciorr faoin mbord
Nó b’fhéidir, más sa leithreas a thit sé
An inchinn ar snámh, mar phutóg sa bhabhla leithris
Agus Mai, gan smaoineamh,
Á sruthlú síos.
Cad a tharlóidh do m’inchinnse?
5.
Agus braithimse an t-am go léir
Gur chóir do m’athair bás tobann a fháil
Gan fhios dó féin
6.
Agus, i bhfaiteadh na súl cuirim aithne air
É ina shuí i gcathaoir bhog
Ag breathnú ar an gcruicéad
Agus é chomh sásta le bua na hIndia
Gur cailleadh láithreach é
Mar a shamhlaíos é
Gan fhios don saol
I had the honour of transcreating a selection of poems by Hemant Divate some years ago. Available on the Internet Archive:
https://archive.org/details/hemant-divate-poems-in-irish/page/n1/mode/2up