LAST WILL
By BIMAL CHANDRA GHOSE
(Translated
by Lila Ray from the original poem in Bengali)
Old
man God walks with a stoop,
Ranting
and cursing.
He
wraps His loose frame
In
a
Rotten with keeping.
The
folds are moth-eaten.
The
royal beard, so white,
Is stained with strong tobacco smoke.
Old
man God stoops beneath a sack,
Full
of wills, on his back:
To
whom shall He bequeath
This
encumbered earth?
Care
has worn His hair away.
He
rants and curses,
And looks about Him.
Vast
is the property.
To
whom shall He bequeath it?
Again
He alters His old will.
Old
man God walks with a stoop
Through the squalor of a slum.
Smudged
with mud, all dusty,
A
naked boy runs up to Him:
“What
you got in your sack, old man?”
God
snarls and rants, cursing.
The
boy, frightened, hides in the shacks.
At
Hebo’s, the jeweller’s
shop,
God
stops, and from His sack
Takes His eternal pipe out.
As
He smokes, He coughs.
“That naked boy. To
him? Far from it!”
Old
man God goes on His way.
He
coughs. A wasting rasp,
Riddles His chest. Down
He
sits beside the road
To get His breath. Tremors
Rack
His ancient bones.
He
rants: in Sanskrit, Chinese, Hebrew.
Who
understands? Stupid man stares.
And
Old man God is furious.
Though
the pressure of His blood rises,
Makes
Him giddy, and He falls,
He
curses. Old God is helpless now.
His
eyes cloud. The slum is foul.
Evening
thickens in His filming sight.
The
Humble
folk, coolies, come to Him.
They
lift Him, and lay Him with care
On a tumbledown cot.
A
disposer of corpses gives Him water.
Haru Dom rubs ice on His
pate.
Karim, the smith, and
Joseph, the tanner,
Seek
to comfort Him, saying,
“Don’t
be afraid, old man.” Futile comfort.
Old
man God lies dying
In
the dust of a coolie’s courtyard,
Dawn
breaks beside the tumbledown cot.
People
have gathered round Him.
Old
man God writes a new will.
To
all mud-smudged naked, children
He
bequeaths the encumbered earth.