knows
no science, but she can grow the aparajita vine over the sunny
thatched house
and she knows the cow is old; still, when evening thickens
cow and grandmother are peaceful together in the grass, in the
grasses’ singing.
Translated from the Bangla by Marian Maddern
Markanda Das (15 CE)
From To the Cuckoo
(Yashoda, the mother of Krishna, expresses her sorrow on separation from her beloved son Krishna, before a cuckoo.)
Cuckoo! Keshaba has left for Mathura.
With whose permission did he leave?
He did not return, O cuckoo!
Cuckoo! To whom shall I give sugarcandy with milk?
The child who eats it has left.
He has left for Mathura. O cuckoo!
Cuckoo! The son left, did not return.
The deep woods of Vrindavan
Have lost their lustre. O cuckoo!
Cuckoo! This house is not home for Nanda.
This house is not beautiful
Without Govinda, O cuckoo!
Cuckoo! Nanda is made of stone.
He put collyrium in the eyes of his son,
Made him climb the chariot, O cuckoo!
Cuckoo! The sweet sound of the moving bells in the waist:
The women of Gopa were
Surprised to hear it, O cuckoo!
Cuckoo! Sometime in the past I hit him with a stick
Krishna has left me
For that one mistake, O cuckoo!
Translated from the Oriya by D.B. Pattanaik
Shakti Chattopadhyay (1934-95)
A Memory Comes Back
A memory comes back.
The whistle, the junction,
The level crossing, a slow train.
Will I see you in the window, reading Hart Crane?
The journey was long, a hundred and fifty miles,
At the end of which all I got is,
‘You aren’t so rich to be wasting money like this.’
How right you were. I was just a schoolteacher then, my dear.
We sat in the moonlight.
You took out a photograph
And said, ‘Keep it.’
It’s there in my wallet.
A memory comes back.
The whistle, the junction,
The level crossing, a slow train.
Honestly, do you still read Hart Crane?
Translated from the Bangla by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Srinivas Rayaprol (1925-98)
Married Love
Every evening
I am met at the gate by my wife
her hair in disorder and her dress in a mess
from the kitchen
and the girls hang on the leaves of the gate
while my ancient car rolls in.
One carries my bag, the other
my lunch basket.
The day’s work is over and I am home.
I have forgotten them all day and now
suddenly remember that I must
disappoint them again
for my evening is planned
for a meaningless excursion to the bars.
And the coffee which my wife has served
is cold in my mouth
and the tales the children have brought from school
are dull on my ears.
In spite of my love for them
I must disappoint them again tonight
English
Dhurjati (16 CE)
My Chest Has Been Worn Away
My chest has been worn away
by the breasts of women rubbing against it.
My skin has been roughened
with love scars from their nails.
Lost in the straining of passion,
youth is gone.
My hair has started falling out,
I’m sick of it all.
I can’t go on in this circling world.
O God of Kalahasti, make me desireless.
Translated from the Telugu by Hank Heifetz and Velcheru Narayana Rao
G.S. Shivarudrappa (b. 1926)
My Pocket
Do not put your hand in my pocket,
Brother. It is mine and no one else
Should meddle with it. It is not your concern.
My bank book, my debt account, my love letters,
It could be anything. But it is mine.
You cannot sort out my troubles. Let them
Be. Just give me your friendship.
No, do not worry about the contents
Of my pocket. I do not worry about yours.
Let the sky between us be clear
Of clouds. That is sufficient.
Translated from the Kannada by O.L. Nagabhushana Swamy
Natwarlal Pandya ‘Ushnas’ (1920-2011)
I, My Father
An amazing and strange new experience.
Entering for the first time a fatherless house,
An emptiness so musty and so vast.
Familiar objects spoke of earlier lives,
Yet curiously, seemed unfamiliar too.
Discarding travelling clothes, I wore an old
Loincloth of father’s, left hanging out to dry.
And freshly bathed and dressed, sat down at prayer.
Reflected in the mirror was father’s face,
Marked with sandalwood and ashes. I arose
From mid-day sleep—father’s habit—athirst for mail.
Slept in father’s cot that night, his very mattress.
And clearly saw my bier, my blazing pyre.
I saw my body burn; I my father!
Translated from the Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari
Anon, Bodo Folk Song
Marriage Song
We have handed the bride over to you;
Take her home.
But be mindful of duties.
If you break limbs,
The loss will be your own:
For, she is your life’s partner.
Others may not rate her high,
But she is a jewel to her mother.
Look to heaven and act accordingly.
She is now completely your charge.
She is not accomplished in ways of devotion and wisdom,
And spinning and weaving she knows not.
Yet you have selected her yourself.
Now stand by your selection,
In all virtue.
Translated from the Bodo by Mohini Mohan Brahma
Madeshwara (c. 14 CE)
From Male Madeshwara
Look here, Sankenne! I tell you:
If I leave you alone in this house,
Those nephews and brothers-in-law—
Pay heed to me, Sankenne:
Having traversed seven and seven fourteen regions,
I married you for the reason, my wife,
That you are beautiful, you are comely,
And that you befit my handsome features.
Hence, I won’t go leaving you alone, my wife.
If I go, leaving you alone,
My aunt’s sons will come here;
My uncle’s sons will come here;
And my brothers-in-law will be here.
They will come here, feigning the need for fire;
They will come here feigning the need for hot water.
They will joke and chat with you;
They will use honeyed words.
They will see your figure and features;
They will see your beauty and charm;
They will make eyes at you.
Then, wife, they will caress you with love,
And they will cajole you to elope with them.
//Give alms to the sage on the mountain peak//
Alas! Master, my Master!
What sinful words you are uttering!
With such sinful words, don’t make me a sinner, master.
Aren’t
my brothers-in-law the same as my father, master?
Aren’t my cousins the same as my children, Guru?
Don’t utter such sinful words, master;
I will bear your feet on my shoulders.
//Give alms to the sage on the mountain peak//
Hear me, O master!
Mother Earth and Sky above are my witnesses,
I will not swear an oath, master.
If I do, I will be unfit to be called a virtuous woman.
Sir, pay heed to my words;
Sir, go to the hills of wild honeycombs.
//Give alms to the sage on the mountain peak//
(Enraged by her refusal to swear an oath he says he will build a tiny hut for her in a desolate and tiny tribal village to stay in while he is away).
Shiva, Shiva! O Mother Earth! O Sky above!
Master, what are you saying?
To go to the desolate place where three mountain peaks meet,
To the silent valley near it,
To build a lonely hut in a tiny tribal hamlet there,
And to live there, far away from everyone—
Was I picked up from the streets by you?
Did I come to you of my own accord?
Was I bred and brought up all alone?
Mother and father I have;
Kith and kin have I;
Elder and younger sisters I have;
Friends and companions have I; and,
Relatives and acquaintances I have.
I cannot forget all these people;
Even if it means to lose my life.
//Give alms to the sage on the mountain peak//
(Sankenne still refuses to swear an oath of fidelity. In any case, she says, what would be the point in this desolate place.)
In this forest, on this path,
If a bangle-seller passes by,
Shouting ‘bangles’ ‘Bombay bangles’—
A creature of a woman like you,
Just adores turmeric, kumkum, flowers and bangles.
Even when you are dying from hunger,
You will yearn for those things—
Then you will invite the bangle-seller with your gestures.
The bangle-seller approaches you . . . .
Translated from the Kannada by C.N. Ramachandran and Padma Sharma
Gnanakoothan (b. 1938)
Son to Mother
Get too chummy with girls
your ears will dry up, you said.
If you are naughty
God will strike you blind, you said.
When I worried you for things to eat,
It’s bad for your tummy, you said
I got you in exchange for a
winnow of bran, you said.
What a lot of lies, Mother, you told me
when I was young!
What made you stop?
Or did you think
I could survive with truth?
Perhaps you thought
lies for grownups were beyond your ken
and left it to the government
to rule by the law.
I don’t like it.
Wean me, mother, when you like,
But feed me your lies
for all time.
You love me, don’t you?
Translated from the Tamil by Ashokamitran
Anjum Hasan (b. 1972)
In My Mother’s Clothes
I feel the cool sweat from under my arms
soak her blouse timidly—shy, damp flowers
of my sweat on her blouse.
I wear her thirst blue and forest green
and burnt orange as if they belonged to me:
my mother’s colours on my skin
in a dusty city.
I walk in her clothes
laughing inside, relieved
of the burden of being what one wears
since in my mother’s clothes
I am neither myself nor my mother,
but more like that spindly
creature of six who slips onto
her fingers her mother’s gold rings,
pulls on a huge cardigan that smells of sunlight and milk,
and conducts herself, drowsy with love, through rooms
with their curtains drawn against the honeyed light of June.
English
B.S. Mardhekar (1909-56)
Son-in-law
I’ve become a wedding-guest
in my own two-room home;
or a son-in-law, visiting
his wife’s family.
The friction gives me a fever;
quinine won’t bring it down;
the salt wind from the invisible world
stings my body.
The sound of distant temple bells
goes sour as it reaches me;
I catch it in the bowl of feelings
and break down.
The machines that run all night
spoil the fruits of darkness;
I taste them and my feverish hate
brings up my bile.
The fringe of lashes on my tired eyes
is the gauze of starlight in the sky;
and yet I don’t dare
go to sleep.
Translated from the Marathi by Vinay Dharwadker
Narasinh Mehta (1408-80)
Here Is a Palanquin
Here is a palanquin,
seated in it is a child groom,
the bride looks at it and laughs.
He is washed and placed inside,
his forehead marked with tilak;
The wedding guests grace the procession,
their heads sprinkled with coloured powder.
Made of green bamboos,
lifted by four men;
Wet white cloths on their heads,
the name of Rama on their lips.
They offer sweets to stray dogs,
and the dogs feel happy.
In front of the groom are faggots,
and flames follow him.
The groom is on his way to the bride’s house,
the bride’s mother is pleased to receive him.
Sparks of fire fly around the gate,
the flames dance around the hall;
Hurry up, you foolish mother of the bride,
the groom is at the gate.
Handsome is the dowry,
Crematorium is the name of the town;
The bride is Lady Red’s daughter,
and is named Princess Pyre.
The groom stayed on at the bride’s,
His people returned home;
They grabbed his money,
his marriage a good riddance for them.
They placed twelve pots and lighted twelve lamps,
and put a coin on the top;
‘Go and tell his father,’ they say,
he can now loudly mourn his son.’
Death took the groom away,
and freed him from flesh.
He merged into Narasinh’s Lord,
and fulfilled himself.
Translated from the Gujarati by Niranjan Bhagat
O.N.V. Kurup (b. 1931)
Those Who Have Lost the Nectar
It has rained my son,
the courtyard has turned into a stream
and your joy, into paper boats.
You launch them one by one,
delighted
as you look at them intently.
As you sit like a legendary god
leading a fleet of ships to far off lands
in good weather
your father sits behind you
and enjoys the sight more.
Your ancestors
you haven’t known, see it from afar.
Like their tears of joy, fall
the rain drops here and there.
The droplets of fresh rain
draw circles like flowers in the water . . .
In an instant, son,
your face is shadowed:
‘Will it rain again, will the boats sink?’
We are those who have lost
the nectar of pure joy; we grieve over
things that might or might not come to pass.
Translated from the Malayalam by S. Velayudhan
Nirmal Prabha Bordoloi (b. 1933)
In the Smell of Rice Fields in Autumn
In the smell of rice fields in autumn
My father comes back to me;
In the fragrance of the new scarf
As I unfold it fresh from the shop
I find my mother again . . .
Where shall I leave myself
For my child
O, where indeed?
Translated from the Assamiya by Hiren Gohain
Daljit Nagra (b. 1966)
In a White Town
She never looked like other boys’ mums.
No one ever looked without looking again
at the pink kameez and balloon’d bottoms,
mustard-oiled trail of hair, brocaded pink
sandals and the smell of curry. That’s why
I’d bin the letters about Parents’ Evenings,
why I’d police the noise of her holy songs,
check the net curtains were hugging the edges,
lavender-spray the hallway when someone knocked,
pluck all the gold-top milk from its crate
in case the mickey-takers would later disclose it,
never confessing my parents’ weird names
or the code of our address when I was licked
by Skinheads (by a toilet seat)
desperate to flush out the enemy within.
I would have felt more at home had she hidden
that illiterate body, bumping noisily into women
at the market, bulging into its drama’d gossip,
for homework—in the public library with my mates,
she’d call, scratching on the windows. Scratching again
until later, her red face would be in my red face,
two of us along, she’d duck at my stuttered Punjabi,
laughing, she’d say I was a gora, I’d only be freed
by a bride from India who would double as her saathi.
Nowadays, when I visit, when she hovers upward,
hobbling towards me to kiss my forehead
as she once used to, I wish I could fall forward.
English
S.A. Usha (b. 1954)
To Mother
Mother, don’t, please don’t,
don’t cut off the sunlight
These My Words Page 17