Babu, aija, chito aija!
Little One, come at the run
But on this day he pays her no heed,
Her slender, dutiful son.
Thirty-five now and fully a man
The frail youngest son she nursed
Became a pillar of strength for her
Until this day, accursed
Of gods and men. She imagined for him
a sweet young bride, her grandchildren
To care for her, to care for him,
The dream still starkly real, yet in
The corner of her rooms, he lies
As if in sleep. She seeks the rise
And fall of his chest, in vain, in vain
which never will rise again.
On the shoulders of bearers he rises now,
His final journey begun
Scarves all aflutter, his face like flint,
Her handsomest, bravest son.
Feet first through the door, down the slippery path
Where the monsoon rivulets run
Between the pea vines and passionfruit tree
To the funeral pyre, her son!
From behind, the arms of women
Hold her up, draw her in beside
The ranks of those who weather this pain,
But not she! Breaking free with a ragged cry --
Babu, Aija! Babu! Babu!
Our story is far from done!
We’ve much to do yet, you and I,
My Babu, my beautiful son.
