Radju By Vera Polozkova Translation
As soon as I landed, Radju, I concluded that these people live like Gods –
Fairy tale like empty airports, ***** roads and on them driving cars handsome studs.
One-piece glass in windows and Dutch ware toilets in a moderate home,
People living here are as happy, I said, as few in our world’s dome.
Their green parks here, Radju, are so vast,
And their houses, Radju, are solid-cast
But not a soul when sun rises sings
A mantra, kirtan or prayer in spring.
It seems they’re not lazy or idle, life in honey,
Radju, but they don’t make anything except for money.
Nothing except for money as if they eat it or it yields –
Only money stacks are advertised on advertisement shields.
Imagine, Radju, no dirt, no slums, but if there’s a long highway to exile
Then all along the road there would be shields with money and even raw meat piled.
Nothing except for money, Radju, as if they can wear it –
They hire people to raise their children. Just imagine it!
Nothing except for money, Radju, if they see a beggar or a cripple
They look as if the poor is not worthy of a man’s name and my back dimpled!
Nothing except for money, but not so that they can buy their wives
Expensive jewelry or embroidered sari – beautiful life.
Instead they put money in a bank and set example for neighbors,
Wear only grey and wife is to wear grey and only labor, labor.
Their women are well-groomed, among old there are no wobbly or lame, hmm
But none of their men sing for them
Nor do they play tablas for them.
Their kids don’t die of poor quality water, infection in rain season, black dust
But I never saw them showing God their gratitude, their admiration and trust!
Their elderly live all alone, when their souls leave body – well,
Often there’s no soul around wanting to say final farewell.
The funniest thing, Radju – they pity you and me, how’s that?
That we can hardly make ends meet to buy our dear children bread.
That we have never been to theater and sleep on mats in dirt –
Those who wish their loved ones death over the phone – they value concerts!
I lived five days among them, ran away on the sixth day in deception –
I bewared that I would finally and irreversibly lose perception.
My Sangita raised her hands up to the skies, Radju mate,
As soon as she saw me, she brought me hot roti and daal plate.
What happened to you, she said, you look scarier than any of Rakshasa, even paler than
A European, I even burst into tears, Radju, that I underwent such horror. Now – zen.
Copyright © Agatha Jetaime | Year Posted 2015
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