Tiger-sighting

 

Neither did I watch him

lazing in the lonely caves of the forest

nor while majestically chasing a herd of deer,

nor did I witness his burning eyes

in a drunken stormy Amavasya night,

not even the dance of death

when he sprang upon his prey

from under the cover of bamboo trees

I watch him, a coward spectator,

from the safe confines of the third tier.

 

From that safe distance, I watch his dimensions

the lines of black painted on yellow wool,

the sharp knife-like nails in the paw-sheath,

seem to be enjoying a life of disuse.

 

Stuffing the facial skeleton with flesh and blood

and filling the eyes with volcanic lava

perhaps one can draw a parallel picture,

and recreate a face like that of this poor tiger.

 

The sleepy royal yawn has enough power

to shatter the breast of some garjat forest,

dread, swirling like the banati fire,

strikes the lone traveler passing through the ghat.

 

A single roar smashes the entire valley into smithereens

the tigress responds from the foot of the hill

their combined roar, in the heart of the forest,

like tons of shipped dread, cause a chill.

 

The fawn hides its face in its mother’s bosom

concealing the young one’s body under the udder

from inside a cave or some unknown hedge

the mother throws her dreadful look here and there.

 

The light of stars shower through the leaves

the wild fowls dream in sleep in their nests

in a nearby village, the bride merges

into her love, discarding robes in the darkness.

 

Watching him from the third row of the gallery,

emaciated, performing tricks to suffice hunger,

I’m reminded of a childhood adage,

Time is the great leveller.

 

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Original Odia: Baghabalokan

Poet:            Ramakanta Rath

Collection: Kete Dinara (1962)

Translated By: Manoranjan Mishra