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Bhagirathi Mishra
Father
Raise your foot, father.
The sky calls you, gesturing by hand.
Long ago my Picture Primer got lost
who knows where.
Kick the void
and bloom into a smile.
One's autodream in one's own slumber—
somewhere, since long,
it has been hibernating.
Meanwhile my fingers
have sprouted out, father;
get up, please,
stretch your hands.
The balloons you brought for me—
they are still there
somewhere in my hand;
the photographs with shoes and fancy tinted glasses—
they are still there
somewhere.
My rushing towards you
stumbling, falling down, getting up
and running once again
and the inevitable wounds—
they are still there
somewhere.
Come, father,
Come now,
calls me that toddler—
my youngest child,
gesturing by hand.
Translated by Kumud Ray
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