with your sari spread across the sky
blanching life’s green leaves.
Don’t say: you’re seventeen already,
don’t flash your sari in the street,
don’t make eyes at passers-by,
don’t be a tomboy riding the winds
Don’t play that tune again
what your mother
her mother and her mother
had played on the snake charmer’s flute
into the ears of nitwits like me.
I’m just spreading my hood.
I’ll sink my fangs in someone
and lose my venom.
Let go, make way.
Circumambulating the holy plant
in the yard, making rangoli designs
to see heaven, turning up dead
without light and air,
for god’s sake, I can’t do it.
Breaking out of the dam
you’ve built, swelling
in a thunderstorm,
roaring through the land
let me live, very different
from you, Mother.
Let go, make way.
Translated from the Kannada by A.K. Ramanujan
Anon, Satpura Folk Song
On One Side of the Ganga
On one side the Ganga:
On another the Jumna.
In the space between the women are playing and singing.
Spread the blanket on the floor, oh brother.
Sit by the bride and comfort her,
Her heart is sad.
Call the carpenter from the town
Make a palanquin for the bride.
Call the merchant from the town, oh father,
Buy saris for the bride, oh father.
Her heart is sad.
Call the goldsmith from the town, oh father.
Call the goldsmith from the town.
Make a necklace for the bride, oh father,
Her heart is sad:
Call the Brahmin from the town, oh father,
Call the Brahmin from the town.
Let the wedding take place,
Her heart is sad.
The bride’s heart is sad, oh father.
Her heart is sad.
Translated from the Gondi by Durga Bhagwat
Kampan (1180-1250)
From the Ramayana
Patalam 8; Jatayu Gives Up His Life
87.3503
Then, as she was speaking, Jatayus
appeared and said, like the thunder, ‘You!
Where are you going? Where are you
going? Stop! Stop!’ The flames
of his anger spreading through his eyes,
his heroic beak shining like lightning,
his body like huge, golden
Mount Meru coming through the sky.
88.3504
His two wings beat the air
as when a world ends, and the fierce wind
blows through the entire universe,
uprooting all the broad, strong mountains
till they rise in the sky and smash
one another to dust falling,
and the sea, swelling, surges up to be one
with the earth and both are destroyed.
89.3505
Trees with strong leafy tops curved down awhile
the clouds above soared high in the sky to avoid him.
‘Up there! The great cruel Garuda is coming!’ the cobras
thought, shrunk their hoods, skulked off and were deeply troubled.
90.3506
Elephants and yalis and every other sort of animal,
great trees from the forest and bushes and rocks
were torn away by the wind from his two wings
and sent soaring so that the sky seemed like the forest.
91.3507
‘Where are you going? Where are you taking the wife
of the highest on your towering chariot along with
part of the earth? No I will cover the sky, all the directions!’
said he whose nature was to spread his protective wings.
Translated from the Tamil by George L. Hart and Hank Heifetz
Tulsidas (c. 1527-1623)
From the Ramayana
Childhood of Rama
One morning his mother first washed him and dressed him,
And then in his cradle she quietly placed him;
This done she prepared for her own household god
An off’ring of fit sacrificial food;
When the worship was done, with the god the meal shared,
She went to the place where the food was prepared;
Returning, her own son she saw with surprise
Was eating the food; she could scarce trust her eyes;
All worried she turned, at his bed took a peep,
And there saw the baby was still fast asleep;
Turning back to the altar, her son was still there;
Her heart jumped in great agitation and fear;
‘One here, one there! Two babies! Marvellous spectacle!
Is it my mind at fault? Is it a miracle?’
Seeing his mother so deeply concerned,
The Lord to her worry a bright smile returned.
Then to her a sight of his wondrous true form,
His form universal, he showed;
In every hair of his body before her
A myriad bright worlds glowed.
Many Sivas, Brahmas, suns and moons with bright beams
Did she see; many worlds, oceans, woods, hills and streams;
She saw time and fate; virtue, wisdom and nature;
She saw things ne’er seen or heard by any creatures;
Illusion she saw also folding her hands,
With pow’r over all, tho’ in trembling she stands;
All souls by Illusion she saw set in motion,
And that which her power breaks, faithful devotion;
O’ercome with the thrill, she could utter no sound,
But bowed with eyes closed and in rev’rence profound.
Translated from the Hindi (Avadhi) by the Rev. A.G. Atkins
Vinda Karandikar (b. 1918)
A Stalemate
She was not that simple:
there were twists and turns in her moods
like a creeper in a hedge
which avoids a neighbouring stone
and looks stealthily at a cactus far away.
Yet she reared a family
begot children
with eyes and noses like her husband’s.
Suddenly she would pause and say
from behind the window bars
‘Indeed, I am happy.’
He would say nothing, would only stare
at the clock on the wall,
afraid lest he miss the train.
Sometimes she would play at madness, deliberately;
it wasn’t madness at all;
then, through the sieve,
go on looking at the moon;
laugh,
even when she couldn’t.
Then he would feel, ‘I must go to the dentist
to get her front teeth filled, if possible, with gold.’
Thus he lived, postponing one thing in the name of another.
And dared not speak, even to himself,
well aware of everything.
Translated from the Marathi by G.V Karandikar
Adil Jussawalla (b. 1940)
Colour Problems in the Family
Mother forgot the features when the rest,
Pinker than Persia, found her future black.
So father turned up, obligingly darker,
His iron skin rich with inherited rust.
Yellow frogs, grandmother called us,
Sallow herself, brass with a touch of ash.
Then you, rose, known to be fair and just,
Said that colours that ran in my family
Had no place in your sun.
&n
bsp; True.
They were colours I ashed on your shoulder,
Bled on your shirt as I spoke.
They were true, and continue to run.
English
G.J.V. Prasad
Desperately Seeking India
In Delhi
without a visa
In Madras
An Aryan spy
Kashmir’s no vacation
They tell me it’s a nation
And Punjab wants to die
In Bombay
I’m an invader
In Assam
An exploiting trader
They would throw me
From the hills
Kick me
From the plains
I promise
Never
To mention India again
English
Imtiaz Dharker
Bombay, Mumbai
You wear two names
like scaffolding, your smile held on
with bamboo sticks and sellotape
and string.
Salt swoops in on a sea-wind
and eats you bite by bite,,
making sounds like seagulls.
Paint, plaster, brick,
your lovely polished skin
gives in, peels and cracks,
but you fight back,
I am like that only,
you say, and toss your head.
White ants turn
your soul to diamond dust,
flood water slaps
at your glassy mouth, and you
smile back. You leave
doors open.
Absolution slides through the walls
of your heart.
You fall apart,
You make yourself again,
and shrug, I am like that only.
Which other city hands out
two different calling cards
one with the left hand,
the other with the right?
English
Vinod Kumar Shukla
Dhaulagiri
Seeing Mount Dhaulagiri,
I was reminded of its picture,
As I’d seen the picture first.
Among the pictures in my house
Are portraits of my ancestors.
I haven’t seen my ancestors,
So whenever I think of them
I think of their portraits.
But not after seeing Dhaulagiri.
Now it’s the ancestors who come to mind
And not their likenesses.
Translated from the Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
‘RIVER OF BLOOD’
Keshav Malik (b. 1924)
In Praise of Guns
The clouds burst in praise of guns,
Especially when Cains rehearse
The ancient curse,
Then trumpeters trumpet the hearse
Of each brave son—
Circumcised and non.
God in heaven, who pours out in such fun,
When scorn answers in cold coin of scorn
Tooth for tooth, eye for eye.
From age to age so the show goes on—
The soul’s gaze fixed
On mirroring pools of blood.
The clouds burst in praise of guns
In praise of sons—
A red thread running through a hole in the lungs.
Lightning and thunder commend violence,
The charioteer winks approval, let
Shot answer shot.
English
Sri Sri (1910-83)
Really?
Really?
Will all the world find happiness?
People see good times?
Really?
Really?
Does the world laugh
happily forever?
Does it overcome
its desire to kill?
Does the time when chains
tighten on slaves
end forever?
Do friendship and brotherhood,
their gentle ways,
win the day?
The dance of the oceans
with their hair dishevelled
and waves curled up—
will it end at last?
The boat’s that caught
in the middle of the storm—
will it safely reach the shore?
Really?
Really?
Translated from the Telugu by Velcheru Narayana Rao
From an oral political narrative (c. late 19 CE)
The Bedas of Haligali
//Palla// (refrain)
Sad days came upon them—on those who wielded swords;
The angry fighters of Haligali—they were indeed doomed.
1. Nudi (unit of four or five lines)
//Chaala// (narration)
It was decreed from the foreign Company government:
The arms and weapons of all have to be seized by force;
Swords and scimitars, knives and sickles of all sorts.
Axes and lances, bows and arrows, muskets and shotguns,
Blades, bullets, powder—everything has to be seized;
Those who hide anything should be jailed for three years,
And those who resist should be put to sword.
//Yerra//(sing loudly)
Many will come forward of their own accord.
And surrender all the weapons they have;
If you offer them some job, in addition.
Gladly, they will give away all in their possession.
It was proclaimed through drumbeats
That such and such were the orders;
The brave fighters, coming to know of this,
Began to cry aloud, their eyes dim with tears.
//Chaala//
They collapsed on the ground, worried and sad.
2. Nudi
Obeying the orders, some gave up a few arms.
But expensive ones—they hid them inside.
‘We have bought them, getting loans, and selling cattle;
How can we give them up?’—so, they buried them.
Then ‘Joith Sahib,’ a brave British officer arrived there,
And he searched every house; every nook and corner;
He was cunning, and he set one against the other;
And one let out the secret of another, almost gleefully.
Last section:
How can I list and describe
What was lost and looted?
They grabbed anything they could see.
Setting fire to the village, they left;
Haligali was reduced to ashes.
Such a rampage took place
No trace of Haligali was left.
I have described only what I could visualise.
May Kurtakoti Kamalesha bless both singers and hearers.
Translated from the Kannada by C.N. Ramachandran and Padma Sharma
Ajneya (1911-87)
Hiroshima
On this day, the sun
Appeared—no, not slowly over the horizon—
But right in the city square.
A blast of dazzle poured over,
Not from the middle sky,
But from the earth torn raggedly open
Human shadows, dazed and lost, pitched
In every direction: this blaze,
Not risen from the east
Smashed in the city’s heart—
An immense wheel
Of Death’s swart sun-car, spinning down and apart
In every direction.
Instant of a sun’s rise and set:
Vision-annihilating flare one compressed noon.
And then?
It was not human shadows that lengthened, paled, and died;
It was men suddenly become a mist, then gone.
The shadows stay:
Burned on rock, stones of these vacant streets.
A sun conjured by men converted men to air, to nothing;
White shadows signed on the black rock give back
Man’s witness to himself.
Translated from the Hindi by the poet
Amrita Pritam (1919-2005)
Ode to Waris Shah
I say to Waris Shah today, speak from your grave
And add a new page to your book of love
Once one daughter of Punjab wept, and you wrote your long saga;
Today thousands weep, calling to you Waris Shah:
Arise, O friend of the afflicted; arise and see the state of Punjab,
Corpses strewn on fields, and the Chenaab flowing with much blood.
Someone filled the five rivers with poison,
And this same water now irrigates our soil.
Where was lost the flute, where the songs of love sounded?
And all Ranjha’s brothers forgotten to play the flute.
Blood has rained on the soil, graves are oozing with blood,
The princesses of love cry their hearts out in the graveyards.
Today all the Quaido’ns have become the thieves of love and beauty,
Where can we find another one like Waris Shah?
Waris Shah! I say to you, speak from your grave
And add a new page to your book of love.
Translated from the Punjabi by Darshan Singh Maini
Anon, Songs from the North (Kerala)
From Unniyarcha and Aromal Unni
Long past the midnight hour
statuesque Unniyarcha,
daughter-in-law
of the Attummanammel clan,
arose from her sleep,
astir with unease,
remembering an ominous dream.
She had seen Aromal Unni,
her brother, handsomest jewel
of the Puthooram clan
set out for his very first duel.
To the progenitors of her clan
she prayed and to the souls
of the dead that hover
around the battlefields, in fact,
to all the familial deities,
entreating, please save him,
save my brother Aromal Unni.
She straightened her clothes
and tidied her hair,
she lit a lamp to light up
the eastern gateway of the house.
She stooped to touch the earth
with her troubled brow.
She folded palms to salute the sun.
Then swept the courtyard clean
and cooked some rice with lentils
over the fluttering fragrant fire,
filled the pewters that held
These My Words Page 18