When Philosophies Sleep

'Everything is fate' That was father's faith; He had nothing to do but wait. 'History alone is real Its developments, all' The son had his credo; The hope of the house, the daughter Remained single, withering, A plantain one ceased to water, Daddy had her horoscope read That's it! She must wait to wed, What has been ordained one cannot amend Even by a dot, try till the days do end. To substantiate his stand He could quote Ramayana From A to Z. To this axiom of belief The son put an axe He can recite Marx Like nursery rhymes. The decadent bourgeois order, Entitled joint-family To hell, let it go! A girl is no commodity To be peddled in market place. If domestic felicity Be historic necessity She can come to agreement Regarding such arrangements. She heard them all But understood none. When her clothes were torn The daughter darned the lot. She got up one day, That is, before The third quarter of night And lit the little oil lamp. She spread the mat, and placed a bowl of water Her father needs them every morn for his prayer, A cup of tea she kept Near her brother's bed He must have it to be himself. To the hall she came And touched the door A flash of lightning reached her core Through the doors that gently came apart The wide world saluted her resolute heart; Stretching its cool soft hand; It placed a wreath of thrill Upon her head. Once, she turned to big a silent farewell To her home, its presiding deity To her brother and sire, To the loose end of her dhoti A coil she tied - A token offering to the Lord of Guruvayur. With a fluttering heart, with steps faltering She paced down to the yard, She paused a while. Years back, her mother, then a bride, Walked in through the same Sand-strewn yard Facing an auspicious lamp. In darkness the daughter Crossed the very yard Her eyes in floods, toes striking stones. [Translated from the original Malayalam 'Thathwasastrangal Urangumbol' by Madhavan Ayyappath.]