after a walk though fields grass birds piers markets--

when somebody hailed

me from behind.

'Comrade!' 'Comrade!' he yelled.

I turned to see a familiar face

a face I would spot at meetings and marches

bristle-bearded, hollow-cheeked, rail-thin,

plain khaki short-sleeved shirt, a dhuti.

When I drew close I realized with a start

that once upon a time

we all had been in the same jail,

his features I remembered well

his name for the life of me I could not recall.

Oh, what a fate,

all those photos in memory's album

and each name erased!

We sat on a bench

and instantly there appeared two glasses of tea

we set the warm containers on the rickety table

with relish squeezed every drop out of the tales

of those bygone days.

Those days of sitting with gritted teeth

with nothing to eat

of barricaded stairs, water stored for the teargas

in the verandah, the flocks of bullets the entire night--

yet, just think, yes, how wonderfully had passed

those day of our lives.

and tears rose to our eyes as we talked,

faces floated up and we recalled

Probhat-Mukul-Shumote.

Then came

talk of the present:

Who is where,

who is doing what--all that! We discover

how contagious is fear.

Both of us fell silent, both unwilling to let things shatter.

Who is where on which side

of the fence--as soon said,

a giant wave right then

roared in

picked us up with both hands

and slammed us two on to the sand.

In front of us was a wall,

and grasping iron bars,

outside stood the dark.

I looked to see both of us back again in our neighboring cells.

Imprisoned in nets, nets of our own weaving.

From Shubhash Mukhopadhya's Sreshtho Kobita. Shahid Khan is an occasional translator.