घर की याद

1. A night of rain: it has been raining heavily all night, and the poet's heart and soul have been clouded over. Morning has come, but he hardly knew when; he only assumed it after a long sleep, because the darkness of the clouds is still thick and everything still bears the stamp of night. Water pours down, leaves rustle, the wind hisses — and his very life trembles. The sound-words create the mood of a gloomy, rain-soaked prison morning.

2. Home floats before his eyes: amid the rain, his home swims into view — a home far away, brimming with happiness, where his four brothers are, and where his sister has come back to her parents' house. Yet he cries out that it is a 'home of grief', because she has come to meet everyone and will not find one brother there.

3. The day that is not a day: today feels no ordinary day; a single moment is like a hundred years, and his longing is unbearable. At home everyone has gathered as never before — four brothers and four sisters, the brothers like strong arms and the sisters like love itself. But he is missing.

4. Mother: his mother cannot read or write, yet she has been shaped and hardened by sorrow. Once he lays his head in her lap, no sorrow remains. Her stream of love reaches even this prison — but since she cannot write, he can never receive a letter from her.

5. Father: as the rain pours and home surrounds him on all sides, he thinks of his father — simple-hearted and brave, with arms strong as a thunderbolt and a heart soft as fresh butter. Old age has not touched him even for a moment; he can still run and laugh freely, does not flinch before death or shy away from a lion; thunder rings in his voice and a storm shakes in his work.

6. Father's morning: the poet imagines that today his father must have read the Gita, done two hundred and sixty push-ups (dand) and swung the heavy clubs (mugdar). Then, coming downstairs and seeing his children playing or standing about, his eyes must have filled with tears and he must have wept, calling out the name of 'the fifth one'.

7. The fifth son: the poet is that fifth one, 'unlucky' — the son his father always called 'borax on gold' (the finishing touch that makes gold shine), on whom his love overflowed. Today even his other golden sons must seem lesser to the father, because his 'suhaga' sits bound in prison.

8. Mother's comfort: the poet imagines his mother consoling his father, though she too must be overflowing with grief: why tears? Bhawani is fine there. He went understanding your mind and your values; it is your own path he follows. A son who stepped back would shame my womb. Do not be so weak, or the other children will cry too.

9. Father's reply and memories: the father must have said, 'Where am I crying? Where have I lost my patience?' — though the poet knows how much he endured. Then, remembering, he tells the mother that on such rainy days Bhawani loved the rain, wandered bare-headed and bare-bodied in the downpour, planted gourd seeds in the big enclosure and would come to tell her that the jasmine had blossomed, and she would go with him. 'I will not cry,' he must have said — and then the tears must have flowed.

10. The scene after: the poet pictures the scene that follows the memory of the fifth son — brothers and sisters frantic with grief, mother a raining cloud of tears, his sister-in-law and Sarla with tears that come naturally; yet out of modesty they cannot cry openly and only writhe inside. Today everyone's heart must have melted and dripped.

11. The rain stops: now the rain has stopped, but the poet's heart is utterly soaked. Identical clouds lie spread across the whole sky, so close that no ray can peep through; they look to him as if his mother had freshly plastered the courtyard. The loveliness of this sky-courtyard has entered the heart of the directions. All ten directions are silent, in a calm, healthy rhythm; the trees stand still on the horizon, eyes closed, breath steady. Then a single bird calls — and reopens the wounds of his heart.

12. Address to the heart: the poet speaks to the poor human heart — why such longing? You are so small; how much sorrow can you bear? You have no control: a breeze comes and you fly off, a wave comes and you turn, a jolt and you break and shatter. Far from your loved ones you flow out in a flood. What do you have but sorrow? Even your smiles are watered with tears.

13. Father's image: the thought of his father pains him most. His body is like a mountain but his heart like a spreading banyan tree: if one leaf breaks, a stream of tears bursts out; a slight hurt, and a river of milk-like love surges up. Not a single twig must be lost. His care and worry run as deep as his roots spread wide. Such is his condition; so the poet asks the wind to give him courage, not to tear his heart.

14. Message through Sawan: the poet now turns to the green, handsome monsoon (Sawan), whom he calls holy and dear: you may rain, but let them not rain tears; let them not pine for the fifth one. He admits that he is fine — only he is not at home. Yet this 'only' is a huge burden; it is what makes everything joyless. But do not tell them that; keep giving them courage.

15. What to tell them: tell them I am writing and reading, working and making a name; that people love me; that they should not grieve at all. Tell them I am cheerful and busy spinning on the charkha, that I weigh seventy ser and eat heartily, that I jump and play and push sorrow away with grit. Tell them I am in high spirits — never that I am sinking.

16. What not to tell: do not tell them the truth as it is — that I lie awake, that I avoid people, that I have fallen silent and no longer know who I am. Take care not to blurt out anything; give them no cause for doubt. The poem closes by repeating the prayer to the green, holy Sawan: rain if you will, but let them not weep, and let them not pine for the fifth one.