This
is the fifteenth part of the translation of Mahagama Sekera's epic
poem 'Prabuddha', an exercise that has the permission and blessings of
the immediate family of Mahagama Sekera. Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI , VII, VIII, IX, X , XI, XII, XIII and XIV can be found in www.malindapoetry.blogspot.com.
And
by the green stretch of paddy
quiet
at the foot of the mountain
a
humble hut
skirted
by a stream
that
polishes and polishes
the
black rocks that line.
The
hills
they
dissolve with
and
disappear into
the
white, white mists
float
into the skies
clearing
the pathways to Nirvana.
And
the trees
still
and silent
clothed
in moonlight’s white
lie
in bliss of comprehension.
The
stream gurgles along
now
breaking in sobs
now
in side-ripping mirth.
Gently
falls the dew
in
infrequent droplet cold,
and
then he heard
as
though in a dream
piercing
the thick layers of mist
the
music of his childhood
when
his flute he played.
And
through it all
there
arose
from
a slumber of twenty years
or
was it thirty (?)
the
singular wearied countenance,
that
of his mother.
Resplendent
in the sorrow sighs
released
into the dawn-hearth
of
fry and bake
crafted
by the kneading
of
trial and tribulation
that
face of perspiration glow
was
sister-face to this,
Prabuddha
thought.
Then
came to mind another face
one
encountered along harsh path
through
foreboding mountains
as
he left village and entered city
in
another lifetime;
another
sister, yes,
of
this mother’s countenance:
Yashoda’s
face.
And
then she
who
gifted love
when
lost and alone
not
knowing where to turn
gifted
children
filled
with courage
as
essence of all these faces
one
face
Niranjala’s.
‘From
lifetime to lifetime
we
lived
you
and I did, Arjuna!
I
remember it all
‘Why
not?
Why
not Niranjala,
I
do remember.
Are
you still asleep Niranjala?
It’s
already 4 o’clock.
Wake
up! Wake up! Wake up Niranjala!
There
is rice to cook
milk
for the children
I
can’t get late to work.’
‘Oh!
I
was fast asleep
stayed
up late last night
went
to bed around 1 o’clock.
‘The
boy was ill
he
had high fever
I
didn’t wake you up,
You
were so tired;
look,
he’s still feverish;
he
needs some medicine
at
least today……
No!
No!
You
need not stay,
go
to work
I
will take him to the doctor!’
With
these soft hands light the clay lamp
these
hands that turn rice into flour,
powder
into milk,
that
make gruel
that
knows suffering.
Give
me light from eyes that know not sleep
so
I can show pathways that lead away
to
all of you who know sorrow.
