At A Quarter To Eight In The Morning

60 the minnesota review Mangesh Padgaonkar Translated by Vinay Dharwadker At A Quarter To Eight In The Morning This naked child, who bathes in sewage floating down an open drain that cleaves the city as a river cleaves the plains— a boy of seven, maybe even less. His eyes are human, yet their blackness seems less culpable than the silkwhite wings of moths. He plunges through the water's dark green web, then surfaces again to stand here on the bank, glistening in the sun. His skin is scabbed with slime, but cleaner than the Ganga cleansing all our sins. And what he is remains unstained: the filth is, in the end, a mirror and mirage projected by the mind. This drain, that sifts the waste from all the tall and handsome houses set along its sprawling course— the noisome odors wafted on the breeze, the hovels crouching on its banks, the swarms of scrawny, tousled lives contained in them, their curses, drunken brawls, and blandishments .... This boy dives back and plashes in the sluggish steam, happy as a fish — I pass him, on the road: I look at him: civilized and clean, I shudder at the sight. My wristwatch balks the day at seven-fortyfive. Massive, fossil, black, the human clock now looms, engraved at seven-fortyfive. ...