“Mother Never Dies” by Basudev Sunani
Basudev Sunani is an award-winning writer. Some of his phenomenal volumes of poetry are Asprushya, Karadi Haata, Chhi, Kaaliaa Ubaacha, Bodha Hue Bhala
Paaibaa Mote Jana Nahin and Mu Achhi Boli. He has also two novels, Paada Podi, and Mashanee Sahara Delhi. Apart from these, he has five volumes of critical essays, Dalit, Punjibad O Bhumandalikaran, Dalit Sanskrutir Itihaas, Dalit Encounter, Ambedkarism: A Way of Life and Brahmanbad O Bharatiya Nari. His work has been translated into English, German, Aboriginal Australian and in many Indian languages. He is a veterinarian by profession, currently, he is a Deputy Commissioner, at the Ministry of Animal Husbandry and Dairying, Government of India. He was born and brought up in the undivided Kalahandi district of Odisha.
Pitambar Naik is an advertising copywriter. When he’s not creating ideas for brands, he writes and translates poetry. His work appears or is forthcoming in Singapore Unbound, Ellipsis... Literature & Art, The Dodge, The McNeese Review, The Notre Dame Review, Packingtown Review, Ghost City Review, Rise Up Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry and elsewhere. He’s the author of the poetry collections, The Anatomy of Solitude (Hawakal) and the forthcoming translation, Fury Species (Republic Publishers). He grew up in Odisha and now lives in Bangalore, India.
A Word from the Author and Translator:
There's a saying: "Mother and the motherland are greater than heaven." That's why it is often said that one truly has a name if they have a mother. The author of the poem "Mother Never Dies" emphasizes that a mother and the nation are intertwined and inseparable. When a mother passes away, the earth trembles with anguish and sorrow. However, the most heartbreaking reality is that in a country like India, many mothers are forced to endure a tragic fate, often ending their lives in utter shame and suffering. They meet their demise in desolate places, such as beside railway tracks or hidden in shanties or fields in remote villages, unnoticed and their stories unheard by their own sons.
Has anyone ever heard of or seen a mother dying?
Man dies but Mother never.
She is always present, in the eyes when alive
and at the end, in the chest.
She comforts every orphan in her saree drape.
Which is why we call our land, our nation, Mother.
When a mother dies, the soil cracks and
what remains but a nation absent of
Mother’s affection and fondness.
After eons, perhaps a mother’s gravestone is not
hiding in any shanty or any unknown village’s field
rather beside the national railway track
in the sunlight, in front of crores of people.
It’s astonishing that whether or not the soil
has cracked, whether or not the nation has broken
her touch has reached the crores of
orphans and ignorant children of the nation.
