Translation of an Urdu poem by Parveen Shakir

The Wife Of Bashira
Perveen Shakir
Translated from the Urdu by Baidar Bakht and Leslie Lavigne

Oh, you pitiable thing!
The lowliest
Of mammals!
You rib-born, worn as a shoe!
When your brother
Would butterfly in the garden,
Your flower-like hands
Would carry a broomstick
Taller than you.
Holding the corner of your mother´s gown,
You learnt so many household chores:
Making cow-dung cakes,
Cutting firewood,
Mixing fodder for the cattle.
But your mother
Always kept the pat of butter
For your brother´s bread
And curry from last night.
Eating leftovers
And wearing rags,
When you came to puberty,
Your father hated you even more.
He kept a close watch
On all your movements,
As if you would elope with someone
At the first opportunity.
The day you turned sixteen,
One man unburdened his soul
To the body of another.
The sty and master changed,
Your job remained the same,
In fact, increased.
Now, your duties included
Humouring the breadwinner at night, as well;
And becoming pregnant every year;
And looking after the house
Until just before giving birth.
The husband´s job was up to bed,
The rest assigned to you.
What a job!
No wages, no days off,
No rituals of resignation.
Even beasts of burden are permitted to rest
On a burning afternoon
In the shade of a tree.
No such moment is there for you.
The bypath of your life has no such tree.
Alas! It seems your life
Is the punishment for sins
Committed in past lives.
If you sell your body,
You´re a prostitute.
You trade your soul
And are called a wife.
For how long
Will these insults be heaped upon you
At the hands of time?
For the sake of a morsel of bread,
And a cup full of water,
How long will you go on
Sacrificing yourself