Our Mother a Literary Translation of Humayun Azad

We knew more about our mother. While, father was a revered persona , a bit distant. Our mother was always an undertone in front of father, an unrecognized delicate privacy, worn out Her lingering incomplete silences used to be gluttonous, never finished enough in complete expressions. Father used to overshadow her delicate presence, almost in nothingness. And we never could even think about alternative options, to observe her from a distance. We knew her more. She was older than us. Yet a young heart among us. Simply any one, like us She belonged to our color, our caste, our clan. A very own. Father had a divine presence, as the ode to divinity should blossom, in humbleness, when we prostrated on earth. Father was a bold resilience, as a lion, his anger used to frighten us. Father’s shadow had an entire folklore of that huge old kite of Ariyal lake, That used to startle us. We used to rush, as trembling chicks take shelter underneath the warmth of the wings of the mama bird. Salvation. And when the shadows are all gone, and dispersed. We used to come out of hibernation. Our mother was a teardrop, a sparkle on the brimming ordinary, throughout the day. Our mother was a daylong softness, as the petals of an unknown dandelion slowly wither away. Our mother was the festive harvest, one blissful land of crops, golden stories of an encompassing horizon. Our mother was that sweetness on our food plates, a relishing yearning,every three times a day. Our mother was like a tranquil pond, and we, the vehement swimmers, were busy there, throughout the day. Our mother was never to be seen to be too close around our father, we never saw. I never knew if my father kissed her lips, ever. It must have been a different story then, her lips then would not be such a dry mediocrity. A plain face. We were young, every year passed as we grew in maturity. Our mother was older than us. Every passing year made her fragile, as age decays a life When I was in class six, I hugged once, mother, as I was frightened and pale. When I was in class seven, my mother hugged me one day,as she felt that too . Every passing year faded in her, and she grew smaller and smaller Every passing year faded in her, and she became frightened , more and more. Our mother no longer lingers there on the falling dandelion petals, that drops in silence throughout a day Our mother no longer ripens there on the golden paddy field, spreading to the farthest in the unknown She no longer resides there as we take food throughout the day. We do not wait there, for far too long. Our mother no longer halts there in the shadows near that pond, we forgot to swim there. A long gone one. Yet, our mother sparkles on that teardrop, from the rural to the urban motif on the quilted days and nights. Our mother flows as an undertone in an almost absence there, somewhere.