The Hunt (Sikar) by Jibanananda Das

২১ শে আগস্ট, ২০১৪ সন্ধ্যা ৭:০৩

Dawn:

Sky, the soft blue of

grasshopper's belly.

Guava and custard appletrees all

around, green as parrot feathers.

A single star lingers in the sky

Like the most twilight-intoxicated

girl in some village bridal

chamber

or that pearl from her bosom the

Egyptian dipped into my glass of

Nile-blue wine

one night some thousands of

years ago-

Just so, in the sky shines a single

star.

To warm their bodies through

the cold night, up-country

menials kept

a fire going

In the field-red fire like a

cockscomb blossom,

Still burning, contorting dry

aswattha leaves.

Its color in the light of the sun is

no longer like vermilion

But has become like wan desires

of a sickly salik bird's heart.

In the morning's light both sky

and surrounding dewy forest

sparkle

like iridescent peacock wings.

Dawn:

All night long a sleek brown

buck, bounding from sundari

through

arjun forests

In starless, mahogany darkness,

avoids the cheetah's grasp.

He had been waiting for this

dawn.

Down he came in its glow,

Ripping, munching fragrant

grass, green as green grapefruit.

Down he came to the river's

stinging, tingling ripples,

To instill his sleepless, weary,

bewildered body with the

current's

drive,

To feel a thrill like that of dawn

bursting through the cold and

wizened

womb of darkness

To wake like gold sun-spears

beneath this blue and

Dazzle doe after doe with beauty,

boldness, desire.

A strange sound.

The river's water red like macaka

flower petals.

Again the fire crackled-red

venison served warm.

Many an old dew-dampened

yarn, while seated on a bed of

grass

beneath the stars.

Cigarette smoke.

Several human heads, hair neatly

parted.

Guns here and there. Icy, calm,

guiltless sleep.

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