Nikhilesh Mishra writes two poems for Outlook.
All night yesterday, Sarfaraz has drunk
Around two nips, directly from the bottle
And after every sip, he has cried—
"Sharaab Haraam Hai! Sharaab Haraam Hai!"
You have no idea
Yesterday, all night, a storm
Has raged around our area,
We have called for a meeting
To give it a name, the storm,
It'd be good if you can make some time
And come to the meeting.
Yesterday, all night, one by one
All the teak wood doors have been shattered,
All the tender branches of the drumstick plant
In front of our house have snapped,
And all the remaining hollow bones of trust
Have been crushed to a pulp,
You'd be the best person to raise the issue of
Compensation.
We are waiting. When everyone comes,
We will start the meeting.
We, as in, only me and Sarfaraz. He is
Sleeping. Let him
Sleep.
Just come directly into the room.
Why should we wake him up, right?
Oh, I forgot, there is no door anymore
For you to wait outside and knock.
Let's say, his name is Abdul.
Life teaches you well
To walk your path alone
Counting your own steps.
How far is Jordan from Syria, do you know?
Life shouts at you,
Run away from here, well in time.
Anytime now, His Excellency would get angry,
Or his deputies.
Life teaches you well,
How to stay alive.
Life tells you,
God is on a vacation now,
And there's a lock on his post office,
And his postman has committed suicide
After reporting his daughter's rape.
See, here, what Abdul has in his bag,
He's saying, "I have my mother in here,"
"And my sister."
No, no, there's no bomb or anything here,
Just a dark red scarf,
And a black burkha.
Syria! You know Syria, right? How far is Jordan from there?
Oye, Abdul! Why does this look all dusty?
You have smeared ash here or what? Ha-Ha!
How far is Jordan from Syria, do you know?
You don't know?
Don't look here and there, you,
Yes, You,
You who are reading this poem, you,
I am asking you.
How come you don't know,
What if your four year old boy asks you
Tomorrow, what will you tell him?
How far is Jordan from Syria, Abdul?
Three thousand Twenty Seven steps,
Abdul would've said, had he known
How to count till that number.
He knows only to count till then.
Oh, he doesn't respond to the name Abdul!
Let's say his name is not Abdul.
Tell me, what's the name of your younger son?
(Nikhilesh Mishra is the author of three poetry collections. He also writes short stories, columns, and scripts, and regularly does translations as well. He is currently a student of the Direction and Screenplay Writing Department at the Satyajit Ray Film & Television Institute, Kolkata. He translated these two poems from Odia into English.)