Rati Saxena [India]

 

My Mother, Whom I Hated

 

1.

 

All I know is that I never felt close to my mother,

even when sitting next to her on a bus.

I was mad at her because she had sent me off

to her brother’s house when I was little,

while keeping her other daughters with her,

and because she made me return home

just when I had started to love living at my uncle’s.

Also because she never defended me

when my sisters mocked my rustic behavior,

and because she took her fury out on me

whenever my father made fun of Bhopal,

the bumpkin town of her birth.

 

The list could go on and on. I realize much too late

that that the days I spent at my uncle’s

were the best part of my life,

filled with the discovery of the imagination,

and that I was brought home because

it was time to get serious about my schooling.

Only now do I understand

that every time my mother scolded me,

her pain was worse than mine.

 

2.

 

I failed to love her, although she had given me wings

by teaching me to ride a bicycle,

purchased with her savings.

She had never had one herself

and didn’t know how to cycle.

I never thanked her for the joy of speed

that she had brought to my life,

nor for the seeds of poetry that she had planted in me

by reciting Jayasi, Tulasidas and Hariaudh.

 

I was upset that she insisted I learn Sanskrit,

so that I could read the Gita at her death bed

although she could not read it herself for her mother.

The rest of my family ridiculed me

for being trained in such an antiquated discipline.

However, if I hadn’t learnt this magical literature,

I would have grown up to be an ignorant

middleclass woman, immune to poetry.

 

I almost stopped talking to her,

but I marveled at her daring to go on pilgrimages

against myr father’s wishes, defiantly

stealing freedom from the darkness. By and by

her boldness transferred to me

and quietly made a home in my heart.

Yet whenever I travelled alone, I felt proud

only of myself.

 

When I cook, I remember her recipes,

little tricks that add flavor to food

while saving a few rupees. Her cooking was

the one thing that I always loved about her

while she was alive. Involuntarily,

I absorbed her tastes and methods,

and today I keep passing them on to my daughters.

When they ask me questions, I give them her answers.

 

I hated her again was when she married me off

into a family that was not right for me. I accused her

of selfishness, of wanting to get rid of me again.

As long as she lived, I was unable to forgive her

the years that this had taken out of my life.

I ignored everything that she had added to it.

 

Now, I feel surprised at how vividly I recall

the details of her rituals during festivals.

I wonder why I keep thinking of her daily,

when cooking a meal, performing a ritual,

or reading ancient literature.

 

Why do I remember her so often? Is it my love of her

that is constantly pricking my heart?

 

 

Forgetfulness 

(Translated by Seth Michelson)

 

 

Forgetfulness is a beautiful boon.

My father believed it, too.

He believed because his English teacher did, too

 

I’d forgotten

in this unknown city

a taxi driver I’d hardly known

had dropped me off in the middle of a road.

 

I’d forgotten how the weak ones speaking my tongue

had hurled stones at me

while hiding behind their trenches.

 

I’d forgotten you, too, God of my grandmother,

and how you change your name with your face

from place to place.

 

I also knowingly forget

the angels and their way

of sticking always by my side.

 

The only thing not forgotten

isall the ones I want to forget

but can’t. 

 

 

Geometry 

(Translated by Seth Michelson)

 

Spreading myself into a circle

I move far, very far, from the axis

 

Every moment from non-entity

Transpiring towards entirety

 

Inside the 360 degrees of void

Searching for a focal point

Turning the wheels

On the chariots of time

 

Trying to make a conversation

With none but oneself

 

To divide myself in the middle, at 180 degrees,

And then to stand tall

Is not easy

 

From where should I begin to rise

Such that the length left behind

Is not untouched by life

 

While trying to fasten my heels to the earth

And reaching for the sky

I lose six feet of land 

 

 

Author’s Bionote: 

* Dr. Rati Saxena is a poet, translator, an editor, traveller as well as an academic scholar of Vedic and ancient literature. She has Seven collections of poetry in Hindi and six in English (translated and/or written). She has translated fifteen books, from Malayalam into Hindi, and eight   poetry collections by international poets from English into Hindi. Her poetry is translated and published in book form in many languages, including English, Italian, Vietnamese, Spanish, Estonian, Serbian, Turkish, and Uzbek, Franch, Chinese. Saxena has also published five travelogues, two memoirs (“Everything Is Past Tense”) and आई सी यू में ताओ (Tao in ICU ),  critical work e on Balamanyaama’s poetry She has participated in over44 poetry festivals and has held three poetry residencies in Germany and China. Her poem was also part of a space mission by Jaxa, Japan, along with 24 other poems.. She has written two books about Poetry therapy, and She got India Gandhi culture fellowship for her work-A fresh approach to Atharvaveda study. Two volumes of books on Poetry therapy in English and one in Hindi translation are published. She also has a book about restudy of the Vedic literature. Her awards include a fellowship from the Indira Gandhi National Centre for Arts (2004-5), the Sahitya Akademi Award for Translation (2000), the Rajasthan Patrika prize for best poem (2020) and Highest award “Meera” from Rajasthan Sahitya Akedemi,2023, literary award from Kerala Sahitya Akademie (2024). She is founder and editor of the first bilingual web journal “kritya”, which started in 2005, and founder and festival director of “kritya poetry festival” which is active from 2005 to 2021 onward.