I saw them sane at the edges of hysteria –
shouting; picking their slain sons
from the feet of the tyrant.

From directions that one never knows
marching unto the horizons
massive armies pass their worrying eyes.

A third of history belongs to them.
All of rumour.
A dusty feather in the crown of a mighty throne.

A shiny day, a husband leaves.
Sons that go come back dressed as monks.
A woman longs for her five hours of sleep.

In the dead of the night, my mother sobs.
Drooping, she keeps on telling me tales.
A woman melting in my arms glues my limbs.

A thousand years wait in the offing.
Of women that left, no traces remain.
A woman has nowhere to go.

Samartha Vashishtha

This poem first appeared in The Deccan Herald.