On A Saturday Evening Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Tomorrow there is no rush.
This evening falls upon me stealthily.
Not many people on the road,
business slower than usual.
The street lights appear dimmer—
perhaps my eyes see less,
or perhaps my mind.

All this is the result of my mind.
I have still not known its sweet will.
My mind—yet so unknown to me.
I am not sure whether I ruminate,
or my mind does.

At this hour a few small bats swing
between the lamp post and the trees.
Sometimes they come near me,
though I do not feel their supersonicity.

My life revolves around day and night—
seeing, smelling, observing, feeling,
and remaining quiet for a long time.
Normal? I do not know.
I do not care to know.

Do the small bats care to see me?
Did the wasp that visited my house this morning
feel my discomfort?
Even a man does not feel for another man.

The boss stays in office for long hours,
expects subordinates to stay and serve him—
does he feel the agony of the staff?

I see, and the more I see,
the more I look inward.
I dig up the soil—the top is so hard;
as I go down, I find softness.
Further down, I find wet sludge;
the impression of my fingers stays there long.

Soil—soft and tender.
My soul too.

Tomorrow there is no rush.
My reflections this evening—
quiet, sombre, sometimes distressing,
otherwise mundane.

Bats swing between light and darkness;
the mind swings too—between what?
What?