The Old House Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

It has been a while
Since my self became displeased with me
And left.
What remains with me
Is just an empty shell
And every wall of my home,
Is overcast with sadness.
It has been a while
Since my self became displeased with me
And left.
And my home, since his departure
Is grieving.

He often returned home
Very late into the night.
As soon as the sun rose,
He would become fearful of the crevices in the walls.
What thoughts leaped across his mind
He would never say,
But all day long
He chased his shadow.

This fruitless wandering of his
Often scared me.
The wildness in his eyes
Almost ate into the mirror
And the cobwebs in that old house
Stirred in this silence.

One day, during such a silence
I showed him the walls of the house.
The thought of those walls weeping in the sunlight
Struck him deeply.
I spoke to him about the walls without thinking,
Because I lost for evermore
His association with these walls.

Before he left the house that day
He walked through every inch of it,
He embraced every coughing,
Ailing brick in the house.
And since that ill-omened day
He never once returned home.

Now whenever someone kills himself
Across a railroad,
Or a group of monks with shaven head
Walks through the town,
Or a Naxalite
Slays somebody -
The walls of my home
Become feverish.
The ailing bricks of this old house
Shiver.
The ailing bricks of this old house
Have faith
That wherever he is, in whatever condition
He is blameless.
He is not displeased with the house,
He is just displeased with the walls of the house.

It has been a while
Since my self became displeased with me
And left.
What remains with me
Is an empty shell,
That is the companion
Of the dying walls of this old house.


[Translated from 'BuDHa Ghar' by Suman Kashyap]