Some poems do not merely speak to us; they quietly awaken memories we have carried for years.
Recently I came across this masterpiece, recited by the host anchor in Hindi on a news channel. And I can't resist myself from googling it for the actual source. And here it goes (I prefer to mention the hindi translation, as mentioned by the news-anchor. However, you may find the English version at: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52955/the-end-and-the-beginning) —
अंत और आरंभ / The End and the Beginning
By विस्वावा शिमोष्का/ Wisława Szymborska
हर युद्ध के बाद,
किसी न किसी को सब कुछ ठीक करना पड़ता है।
आखिर चीजें अपने आप तो ठिकाने नहीं लग जाएंगी।
किसी को सड़कों से मलवा हटाना पड़ता है,
ताकि लाशों से भरी गाड़ियां गुजर सके।
कोई भारी कदमों से चलता चला जाता है,
कीचड़ और राख से होते हुए,
सोफों के स्प्रिंग, कांच के टुकड़ों
और खून से सने कपड़ों से बचते हुए।
किसी को घसीट कर लाना होता है,
एक खंबा, गिरती दीवारों को टिकाने के लिए।
किसी को खिड़कियों में कांच लगाने होते हैं,
चौखट में दरवाजा लगाना होता है।
कोई फोटोग्राफर मुस्कुराने के लिए नहीं कहता,
बरसों तक सभी कैमरे किसी और मोर्चे पर चले गए हैं।
फिर से बनाने हैं पुल और रेलवे स्टेशन,
इसके लिए चीथड़े-चीथड़े हुए कमीजों को
आस्तीन चढ़ानी होंगी।
कोई हाथ में झाड़ू लिए याद करता है,
'कैसे हुआ यह सब?'
और कोई सुनता है, हिलाते हुए अपना सर,
जो किसी तरह साबुत रह गया है।
लेकिन बाकी सब दौड़-धूप में लगे हैं,
किस कदर बोरियत से भरे हुए।
कभी-कभार ही सही, कोई अब भी
अड़े मुर्दों की तरह उखाड़ लाता है
झाड़ियों के पीछे से एक जंग खाई बहस,
और कचरे के ढेर में डाल आता है।
वे जो यह सब जानते थे, उन्हें रास्ता छोड़ देना होगा,
उनके लिए, जो बहुत कम जानते हैं,
या उससे भी कम।
यहाँ तक कि कुछ भी नहीं जानते,
और उस घास पर, जो सारे कारणों और परिणामों को
दबा लेती है अपने नीचे,
दांतों में तिनका दबाए, कोई होगा लेटा
अनमना सा देखते हुए बादलों का
बिखर जाना,
बिखर जाना,
बिखर जाना।
While reading this — The End and the Beginning by Wislawa Szymborska (2001), reminded me of my personal losses, and what my family endured,— and of the strange reality that follows death.
It brought back memories of watching loved ones suffer, saying goodbye to them, and then witnessing life continue despite the grief. The poem made me reflect on something deeply human: no matter how shattered we feel, the work of living somehow goes on.
When people speak about loss, they often speak about the moment someone leaves. Yet what has stayed with me over the years is not only the departure, but everything that follows it.
I have seen loved ones battle illness with remarkable resilience even when there was little hope left. I have sat beside them, helplessly wishing I could ease their suffering. And I have witnessed that difficult moment when everyone, including the person who is leaving, seems to understand that it is time to say goodbye.
Death brings grief, but it also brings responsibility.
There is hardly any time to remain frozen in shock. The rituals must be arranged, relatives informed, visitors received, and the practical details of farewell attended to. While the heart struggles to accept what has happened, life quietly begins demanding participation again.
One of the strongest images in my memory is of my mother after the loss of her daughters. She was devastated in a way that only a bereaved parent can be. Yet even in the midst of that unimaginable sorrow, the household continued to function.
Meals had to be cooked, clothes washed, guests attended to, and daily routines maintained. Looking back, I do not think she carried on because she was extraordinarily strong. I think she carried on because she was human.
We often praise people for their resilience after tragedy, as though they possess some exceptional quality. But perhaps there is something more universal at work. Human beings have an extraordinary ability to continue existing alongside their pain.
We do not necessarily conquer grief; we learn to live with it.
We perform ordinary tasks while carrying extraordinary sorrow. We make tea, answer phone calls, clean rooms, and return to work, all while a part of us remains elsewhere.
The poem reminded me of another difficult truth. After someone passes away, there is often clutter left behind—not merely physical objects, but the traces of illness, caregiving, and disruption that accumulate around suffering. Eventually, someone has to clear it. Not because the person who died mattered any less, but because the living need space to continue living. It feels harsh when stated plainly, yet it is one of life's most honest realities. Love remains, memories remain, but life asks the survivors to move forward.
What moved me most about the poem was its refusal to romanticize either grief or recovery. It recognizes that after every ending comes the less dramatic but equally important work of rebuilding. The world does not stop for our heartbreak. The next day arrives regardless.
The sun rises. The chores wait. The routines return.
Perhaps that is not a sign of strength at all. Perhaps it is simply the nature of being human.
We cry, we remember, we mourn, and somehow, despite everything, we continue. Not because we have forgotten those we loved, but because carrying their memory forward is itself a part of living.
In the end, the dead find rest, while the living inherit the responsibility of continuing the story. It is a burden, but it is also a quiet testament to our shared humanity: no matter what happens, life, in all its ordinary stubbornness, goes on.
Refernces:
[1]. Indian Express Hindi. (2026, June 17). US-Iran, Israel-Gaza में जो हो रहा है, उसकी भयावह तस्वीर पेश करती “अंत और आरम्भ” [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdHGsKsxUYk
[2].Szymborska, W. (2001). The end and the beginning (J. Trzeciak, Trans.). Poetry Foundation. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52955/the-end-and-the-beginning
