Daybreak

whenever I think of you
I think of all the early mornings

how you laughed like a girl
as we listened
for the cannon to fire
and the foghorns to blow
on New Year’s eve
eyes sparkling,
you dealt us round after round
as hearts and diamonds
slipped through our fingers all night —
kings and queens, knaves and clowns
waiting impatiently
for the first day to break

how you pulled us out of bed
with no mercy
on Mahalaya,
how we huddled near the radio
half asleep, scalded by tea,
until airwaves all around us
exploded into heady prayer
like a rush of steam

rising up from every home on our street
you knew each verse by heart
and every year Ma cried
when the goddess was born

how you loved to march with us
like a drillmaster
on your morning walks,
grumbling, we dragged our groggy feet
to the dry fountain where,
years ago,
you had arranged Ma’s girlhood parties —
you paused near the shiuli, trying to bend,
and in a flash
we were groping wet earth,
grabbing orange-tipped fragrance in the fog,
greedy, and impossibly awake

how you walked into my room
with unsteady steps
on the winter nights of my finals
“To bed!” you scolded, even as
I muttered formulas I’d never follow
and dozed over tea-stained history
you denounced all-nighters
but you stayed up with me
every night
until we heard the prayers from the mosque
echo in our hearts
through coal smoke

how you clutched your magnifying glass
as I tiptoed past you, asleep in your chair,
during my summer break —
you never stopped reading the fine print,
while I
couldn’t even see how that big sky
was magnifying pink shapes
everywhere in bold,
as I stumbled into bed
unsteadier than you
just before
you would start your day

whenever I think of you
I think of all the early mornings
I missed

About The Author

Nandana Dev Sen

Nandana Dev Sen is the translator of Acrobat (Juggernaut), a collection of poems by Nabaneeta Dev Sen