
A HOUSEMAID
Hair dishevelled, Vermillion cleansed, Skin creased, eyes sunken, Face dry, and voice choked. I ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Your uncle died.’ ‘How?’ ‘Just a fall

Hair dishevelled, Vermillion cleansed, Skin creased, eyes sunken, Face dry, and voice choked. I ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Your uncle died.’ ‘How?’ ‘Just a fall

When children cry I cry. When a girl is raped I laugh as a madman , when a clash is fought among

Four corners I have In one are buried my ancestors. In the next There sleeps a cooking pot. Over the third thatched roof

আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি সহাস্যে জঙ্গল বিনাশ করেন। আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি হৃদয়ে দেওয়াল নির্মাণ করেন আর নিজের গণ্ডীকে আরও দুর্ভেদ্য

Ask not my country Or state. Ask not my trade Or job. Ask not my tongue Or region. Ask not the colour

Tagore! You are our poet, our identity, Our leader, our mentor, To whom we return At dark nights and in shining days. Tagore! You

1 Bilkis! you are not Lucrece you have no lily hand or rosy cheek and your eyes are not marigolds, hair not golden threads


Sixty autumns together they walked, And how many more who knows? Side by side they stood on the forest fringe And admired shrivelled faces and

Bored being confined by four walls, I set out for Santalpara Where I hear rustics sit idle whole day And drink, brawl and do nothing.
