Parting the leaves of the banyan tree
the egg-shaped sun came
and
dropped The Times of India
at my door.
The Times of India gave me a country
floundering to be a nation,
a blood-stained earth
crying out to become a mother.
Later, the day gave me
agitating streets on fire
seeking a clear identity.
As the sun flared up in a flame,
the griddle of the sky
roasted the earth like a roti
ravenously consumed
by a handful of mouth
round a table.

Translated from the Nepali by Pankaj Thapa