Carrie + Debbie & "Misfit"

“Misfit”

Sometimes I wonder why

I have such little ability

To make people happy.

Some are angry at my words,

Others with my tone.

Earlier my mother, lamenting of my employment.

Now my son has the same grievance!

(By running in an obscure race for subsistence,

Relationships are compromised.)

When the reality is this,

I amuse my home

Being a woman of perseverance.

However, every morning

On my shoulders

The satchel of responsibility

Gets heavier than before.

Still on my back, the pounding of incapability

Constantly becomes more visible everyday.

Then again, there is my office

Where the first stipulation to bind

The hiring contract is to submit

Your self-respect.

I try to cultivate barren minds

And grow verdigris.

Sometimes you see

A little verdure.

Otherwise, rocks often remain

Angry with the moderately dissolvent rain.

My clan attempts to find insight

In my word.

But my self very well knows

Among them who is viewing the words

And who is viewing the creator of the words.

All orbits are smaller than my feet.

But the ferocious dance of time never stops

At any destination.

The dance’s tunes and their modulation

Is constantly getting faster.

Either I am some one else or,

Then again,

This is not my planet!

Parveen Shakir (24 November 1952 - 26 December 1994)

Translated from the Urdu by M.S. Alverston, 02/13/11.