It looked as though some fat vicious spirit

Was abroad again; in the stormy dark

False-hearted lanes quaked, and the wild goddess

Roused ghosts of the past. Even as arrived

Fate-laden Āshādh, she set on swift prowl

Ancestral elements of wariness.

In fierce assault gathered scarlet clouds

Of unease, and the thick Monsoon in throngs

Of unquiet thoughts invaded feeble huts,

And feebler souls. At times streaks of lightning

Pierced through the dumb bellies of frightened calves,

Or else tall nervous trees fell on swollen

Banks of the Odhaņā. Ceaseless downpour

Brought many waters and pregnant furrows

Already saw life sprouting, life of qualms,

Of worries, premonitions. Rukmini

Had gone in the morning for work to farm

Across the river, leaving her children

With their helpless grandparents. Early loss

Of Haribā was a grieving sorrow

Buried in the chill silence of her breast.

Some occult god had stung him with the fangs

Of mourning, and ran viscous arsenic

Through bloodstreams of her warm youth, her longings,

Through sweetness of her dreams. Solicitude

Entered into her calm and, as faded

The day, Rukmini was disconsolate:

Haste she must make for her eager children.

But a vague distant figure moved closer

And stood under the bābhuļ. A fond good

Was there to forewarn the woman. She felt

Some evil slithering towards her hut

And her Ramu crying aloud. But then

A tigress rushed into a mother’s limbs

And the Odhaņā in spate applauded

The love that crosses dangerous currents.

RY Deshpande

30 August 2004