Devaki Abhilashi
What does a collage of sweats alone
look like, after all —
blue, red, white or of any other color!
Why on canvases strewn along the way
are paintings of landsides painted?
My father, in the village far-off,
lets torrents of perspirations
to thaw the pang of intense hunger
and lets a blue river of sweats
flow on the ground,
engages in Holi in every odd season
with colors of his own toil.
He has no fascination for the odor of any perfume;
he has grown used to
the odor of soil he loves;
he never loathes
the fragrance of his own soil
the color of his own toil.
His modern sons, in the city here
demean the toils of their father;
they do not cherish
the color of their father’s skin
their father’s attires
and the color of their father’s sweats.
The fathers shed perspirations
to sustain life
and the sons shed sweats
to build their bodies.
Why is the color of the fathers’ sweats
different from that of their sons?
Compelled are the fathers,
to silently stare at the demise of their dreams.
Why isn’t the color of sweats
the same everywhere?
Why don’t the fathers have
liberation in their fate
from the servitude of odd colors?
Why is there no harmony
among the colors of sweats?
Trans: Mahesh Paudyal
Devaki Abhilashi (b. 1987 ) is a promising poetic talent among younger generation poets. Though she is yet to launch her first anthology, she is a familiar figure among patrons of contemporary poetry. She is best known for her poems concerning the common people. She is editor and publisher of the periodical Urbara.