GRISHMA, BARSHA

The azan goes
round the city
in a rousing relay.

In the eastern sky
the grey of an old man's bottom
gives way to baby pink.

How about a conservatory
for muezzins?

Badshah Akbar had instructed
that the dawn azan
should be delivered
in Raga Ahir Bhairo –
it still is in Old Delhi,
a glorious aubade.

It's cool, it's warm, it's hot:
it's summertime.
The clock seems awry:
it's summer time
for the first time
here.
          Everything's late.
All the frogs in Rajasthan
married off –
                        and still no rain.

The cattle all scrawny,
Krishna missing from Vrindavana.
Radha's prayer song's
a big hit –
                   and still no rain.

Down in our sultry delta,
under a leaden sky,
I toss and turn and slip
into a sleep of hopelessness.

But the waking up's
miraculous –
the monsoon's upon us –
a month late –
and desperate
to make up
for lost time,

wind and water
playing furioso –

azan soaring 
over rain clouds –

and Krishna's flute calling
Radha, Radha, Radha...

Kiaser Haq is professor of English at the University of Dhaka, writes poetry and translates