Beaten

 BEATEN

P RAMAN

translation: V.P.Manoharan

Passing through hurriedly,

I noticed that man

sitting on one of the benches

in the park, at noon.

Like he was saying goodbye to someone,

he kept waving his raised hand -

a visibly tired young man.

As if someone dear had just left

bidding him adieu,

he looked increasingly weary.

At whom is he waving his hand?

I too looked, beyond the road

toward where he looked

amidst the buildings.

Except for the city-crowd

none very disparate is to be seen.

Or else, the wave of the hand

is meant for each one, among the crowd.

Much too late, after the work

as I returned home the same way

in the now deserted park,

where lights one by one died,

on the same bench, he was there.

Seemed even more worn,

hadn’t he eaten anything?

He was lying on the bench

rambling away quietly.

I was walking, close to the barbed-wire fencing.

He was murmuring something

as if to someone, sitting near him.

Only, tea . . . tea . . . could be heard.

I too was sapped,

speedily I strode, toward my home.

Though sleepy from fatigue,

a sudden doubt seizing my mind

about that man in the park

I set out, and totally drained

arrived at the park in the book.

There, on Kakkad’s bench

he was.

He's saying farewell

to his Yaksha, his own spirit

leaving forever, going away.

Sitting near to him

whispering to him,

drink the tea, drink the tea

is a merciful mermaid.

Shattered to the core

he’s likely to die

this very night.

 

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