Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
After a painting by Kishore Kumar Das
I am stitching a river.
Countless nights and days
mornings evenings and afternoons
have I sewn into the river—
am sewing still.
Mother trained me, a little girl,
to patch gaping puddles
with threads and needles.
Stitching little ponds and lakes
I made handkerchiefs, tablecloths, pillowcases.
With fish-hyacinth-waterlily motifs
little frocks were made from little brooks.
Time passed
and the old sewing machine got busier—
like a nimble tailor
I now spread the river before me to sew.
And I sew, barely looking up.
Threads change, needles change.
The river changes its course.
I stitch carefully
so that fishes, boats and swimmers
aren’t pricked by my needle.
Before sinking into the river
the sun leaves
spools of red-pink-orange threads.
The black-threaded nights
have occasional stitches in silver
as the moon makes a bed of the river.
Many monsoons have I sewn
with the needle of rain.
With needles of thirst and drought
were sewn golden-brown sandbanks.
Closely following the river
the banks flow into the tapestry.
So does the green breath
of hills, farms and forests,
the scents of the country,
the city’s cunning.
At the peak of the monsoon
my spectacles break to pieces.
An arduous task it is
to sew a swelling river.
Eddies and waves
wash the needle away.
Threads snap as banks erode.
The river surges off the machine
and submerges me.
I cling to a floating corpse
and swim with the tide
until the river calms.
The needle floats back to me.
To tell the tale of the tailor
I keep on stitching the river.
This site is designed and maintained by GONECASE