This Is Not A Question Of That Kind

Hrushikesha Mohanty
(English Version of the Odia poem published in Digbalaya April 2010)
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This is not a kind of question
For which you choose to live in a cave filled with solid darks
Where bats fly tearing off the space and time
With stinking smells of droppings
And the present sits in despair!

This is not a kind of question
To be asked by you like a Parikhita
And I will be a Suka Muni to reply and get rid-off.

Why didn’t Sita ask this question being cornered-
Being afraid of whispers or cursing to her fate
Or deciding to forget the footsteps of yesterdays’?

Why do we ask those questions in every evening
To tease each other or to offend each other?
As if there is a lot of fun in weeping in hidings.

Often we have decided to forget the question
That does not have any answer
Neither in stuffed purse nor in weaponry of tongue.
But the question again appears with the rage of Durbasa
For anger, desire or suspicion?

There are so many other questions to answer
That can be searched and searched
Gazing and pondering at the restless sea.
Why don’t you understand – there need not
Be answers to all the questions to live with - The Present.
Let me confess – it’s not a beautiful translation.

by Hrushikesha Mohanty

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