A poem of Keshav Meshram

One day I cursed that mother-fucker God

Trans.-Jayant Karve and Eleanor Zelliot with Pam Espleland

One day I cursed that mother-fucker God.
He just laughed shamelessly.
My neighbour – a born-to-pen Brahman – was shocked.
He looked at me with his castor-oil face and said,
‘How can you say such things to the
Source of the Indescribable,
Qualityless, Formless Juggernaut ?
Shame on you for trying to catch his dharma-hood
in a noose of words.’

 

I cursed another good hot curse.
The university buildings shuddered and sank waist-deep.
All at once, scholars began doing research
into what makes people angry.
They sat in their big rooms fragrant with incense,
and debated.
On my birthday, I cursed God.
I cursed him, I cursed him again.
Whipping him with words, I said
‘Bastard !’
‘Would you chop a whole cart full of wood
for a single piece of bread ?
Would you wipe the sweat from your bony body
with your mother’s ragged sari ?
Would you wear out your brothers and sisters
for your father’s pipe ?
Would you work as a pimp
to keep him in booze ?
Oh Father, Oh God the Father!
You can never do such things.
First you would need a mother -
one that no one honours
one who toils in the dirt
one who gives and gives of her love.’

 

One day cursed the mother-fucker God.