These My Words

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These My Words Page 20

by Eunice de Souza


  as if seeking men on the earth . . .

  God, my poor God,

  who murdered you more?

  Translated from the Hindi by Lucy Rosenstein

  Raghuvir Sahay (1929-90)

  Cycle Rickshaw

  It may sound like socialism to say

  we should treat horses like human beings,

  especially when one of them happens to be a human being.

  When we jump guiltily off a rickshaw,

  and then feel sorry we’ve deprived the poor man of his

  livelihood

  and finally tip him out of pity—

  in all three cases we’re a trial to him, and he has to endure

  us.

  It is only when we haggle over the fare

  that we approach equality.

  Come, you engineers of the twenty-first century,

  let’s invent a cycle-rickshaw in which

  the passenger and horse can sit side by side

  and just go for a spin.

  And what good will this do, you may ask?

  Well, if there’s a disagreement between you and the horse,

  at least he won’t have to turn round and get a crick in his

  neck.

  Translated from the Hindi by Harish Trivedi and Daniel Weissbort

  Jaysinh Birjepatil (b. 1933)

  The Secunderabad Club

  The Empire rests there.

  Dull cherry orchard thud

  Of cues from the Billiard Room,

  Heirloom of a half-finished game.

  Bearers in white man this khaki outpost,

  Playing host to snickery ghosts,

  Mutton-chop good looks, peaches and cream,

  Flash on their sepia consciousness.

  Someone dissolves with a cool splash

  In the desegregated pool.

  An irate Koi-Hai glares,

  Thumps the table with a pseudo-Sandhurst air.

  On the wainscot of the Men’s Bar,

  Mid-century Club Presidents turn brown:

  Their portraits shine in the mirror—

  None breaks rank.

  To whom do these memories belong?

  They sprout in vases,

  White ants building colonies,

  Chota pegs served for auld lang syne.

  Out in the dark a cart creaks by

  In the land of the vanishing empires

  Adipose waddlers chew betel-nut

  In the corridors of power.

  Bearers stoop under the white man’s burden.

  The Empire is frozen

  In their look of reproof

  As fish-knives are used for stirring the soup.

  English

  Shrikant Varma (1931-86)

  Process

  What was I doing

  When

  Everyone was saying ‘Hail’?

  I was also saying ‘Hail,’

  And was afraid,

  as everyone was.

  What was I doing

  When

  Everyone was saying.

  ‘Aziz is my enemy’?

  I too said

  ‘Aziz is my enemy.’

  What was I doing

  When everybody was saying,

  ‘Don’t open your mouth’?

  I also said,

  ‘Don’t open your mouth,

  Say what everyone says.’

  The shouts of ‘Hail’ have ceased,

  Aziz has been killed;

  Mouths have been silenced.

  Bewildered, everyone asks

  ‘How did it come to pass’?

  As others ask

  So I ask,

  ‘How did it come to pass?’

  Translated from the Hindi by Vishnu Khare

  Tabish Khair (b. 1966)

  Remembering Tiananmen

  Sometimes, I sigh for life—

  So many farewells, meetings how few.

  I

  Sitting silently in the willow-breaking pavilion

  What can we do but remember; remember

  The days that had been dragon-ridden,

  The young men and women who had loved too much

  And let their love bear leaves without the deeper root.

  II

  In China, once when the ky-lin had shrieked,

  Someone had made poems of the injustice all felt,

  Of every heart’s desire not yet fulfilled.

  Unheard, from the shadows he had leapt into the dark,

  Leaving us only with memories of dragon-boats and

  dumplings.

  III

  All good things soon come to an end, our elders had said

  When we stood in Tiananmen Square making poems.

  Today, when we hide in the willows, awaiting almond blossoms,

  We told you so, they seem to say shaking the snow in their hair.

  Having planted no cherry tree, the old can afford to be wise.

  English

  Lakhmi Khilani (b. 1935)

  When That Day Comes

  When that day comes

  The soldier touches his mother’s feet

  Looks at his wife with affection

  Kisses the forehead of his child . . .

  When that day comes

  The soldier carries lethal weapons with him

  Ties bombs and missiles around his neck

  And tries to pretend that he is stone-hearted . . .

  When that day comes

  The soldier reaches the battlefield

  To save his nation

  Fights with the soldier of the other nation.

  When that day comes

  The day passes by and the night too passes away

  The earth looks red

  The sky looks red

  Nothing else but the red colour remains.

  When that day comes

  The soldier smiles with his eyes closed

  He lives in order to spread peace in the world

  He fights in order to bring peace in the world

  He dies in order to bring peace in the world

  And finally reaches that world of peace

  When that day comes . . .

  Translated from the Sindhi by Madhu Kewlani

  Kunwar Narain (b. 1927)

  Ayodhya, 1992

  O Rama

  Life is a bitter fact

  and you are an epic.

  You cannot win over

  the unthinking

  that now has not ten or twenty

  but a million heads and hands;

  and who knows with whom your ally

  Vibhishana too now stands.

  What more can our misfortune be

  that your kingdom lies shrunk

  to a stage of dispute so petty.

  Ayodhya is not your war-free realm now

  But a warrior’s Lanka of old,

  And ‘Manas’ not your virtues

  but slogans that elections hold.

  O Rama, where are these times

  and where your golden days:

  Where your noble glory

  and where these wily ways!

  We humbly pray, O Lord, that you return

  securely, with wife and home,

  to some scroll—some sacred tome;

  these jungles are not the jungles of yore

  that Valmiki used to roam.

  Translated from the Hindi by Apurva Narain

  Vyasa

  From the Mahabharata

  Bhishma and Parsurama Engage in Combat

  Parasurama, excited,

  deluged me with twelve

  terrible weapons,

  so radiant and swift,

  that I cannot, O Bharata,

  describe them in words.

  For how is that possible?

  When the arrows converge

  from different directions

  like the twelve suns that blaze

  at the world’s dissolution,

  one feels only fear.

&
nbsp; When the arrows like nets

  came rushing, I blocked

  them with arrows like nets.

  With twelve of my arrows

  I baffled the power

  of the twelve fierce suns.

  Parasurama-mahatma

  replied with more arrows

  with golden shafts

  and golden wings.

  They sped through the air

  like radiant meteors.

  These too I repulsed

  with my shield and my sword,

  and replied with a shower

  of divine arrows

  intended to kill

  his charioteer and horses.

  When he noticed the swarms

  of gold snake-arrows

  released at his chariot,

  Parasurama-mahatma

  the Haihaya lord,

  shot divine missiles.

  And suddenly a swarm

  of arrows descended

  like a swarm of locusts,

  devouring my body,

  devouring my horses,

  devouring my chariot.

  Those arrows devoured

  my chariot, my horse,

  my charioteer too.

  They crumbled the wheels,

  the axle, the spokes,

  the yoke of my chariot.

  To the best of my powers,

  I hurled on my guru

  a counter-discharge;

  the violent impact

  made that Brahmin hero

  a blood-dripping mass.

  I bled with his arrows,

  he bled with mine.

  And late in the evening,

  when the sunrays vanished

  in the hills of the west,

  the combat ended.

  Translated from the Sanskrit by P. Lal

  Book XI

  Gandhari’s Lament for the Slain

  Stainless Queen and stainless woman, ever righteous ever good,

  Stately in her mighty sorrow on the field Gandhari stood!

  Strewn with skulls and clotted tresses, darkened by the stream of

  gore,

  With the limbs of countless warriors is the red field covered o’er,

  Elephants and steeds of battle, car-borne chiefs untimely slain,

  Headless trunks and heads dissevered fill the red and ghastly plain,

  And the long-drawn howl of jackals o’er the scene of carnage rings,

  And the vulture and the raven flap their dark and loathsome wings.

  Feasting on the blood of warriors foul Pisachas*1 fill the air,

  Viewless forms of hungry Rakshas† limb from limb the corpses

  tear!

  Through this scene of death and carnage was the ancient monarch

  led,

  Kuru dames with faltering footsteps stepped amidst the countless

  dead,

  And a piercing wail of anguish burst upon the echoing plain,

  As they saw their sons or fathers, brothers, lords, amidst the

  slain,

  As they saw the wolves of jungle feed upon the destined prey,

  Darksome wanderers of the midnight prowling in the light of

  day!

  Shriek of pain and wail of anguish o’er the ghastly field resound,

  And their feeble footsteps falter and they sink upon the ground,

  Sense and life desert the mourners as they faint in common grief,

  Death-like swoon succeeding sorrow yields a moment’s short relief!

  Then a mighty sigh of anguish from Gandhari’s bosom broke,

  Gazing on her anguished daughters unto Krishna thus she spoke:

  ‘Mark my unconsoled daughters, widowed queens of Kuru’s

  house,

  Wailing for their dear departed, like the osprey for her spouse!

  How each cold and fading feature wakes in them a woman’s love,

  How amidst the lifeless warriors still with restless steps they rove.

  Mothers hug their slaughtered children all unconscious in their

  sleep,

  Widows bend upon their husbands and in ceaseless sorrow weep.

  Mighty Bhishma, hath he fallen, quenched in archer Karna’s

  pride,

  Doth the monarch of Panchala sleep by foeman Drona’s side?

  Shining mail and costly jewels, royal bangles strew the plain,

  Golden garlands rich and burnished deck the chiefs untimely slain,

  Lances hurled by stalwart fighters, clubs of mighty wrestlers killed,

  Swords and bows of ample measure, quivers still with arrows filled!

  Mark the unforgotten heroes, jungle prowlers mid them stray,

  On their brow and mailed bosoms heedless sit the birds of prey,

  Mark the great unconquered heroes famed on earth from west to

  east,

  Kankas‡ perch upon their foreheads, hungry wolves upon them feast!

  Mark the kings, on softest cushion scarce the needed rest they

  found,

  Now they lie in peaceful slumber on the hard and reddened ground,

  Mark the youths who morn and evening listed to the minstrel’s

  song,

  In their ear the loathsome jackal doth his doleful wail prolong!

  See the chieftans with their maces and their swords of trusty steel,

  Still they grasp the tried weapons,—do they still the life-pulse feel?’

  Translated from the Sanskrit by Romesh C. Dutt

  Anon, Political Song

  This Night Is Endless

  This night is endless

  The rice jars are empty

  My eyes fill with tears

  and my heart is anguished

  How will I look after my mother?

  I cannot stay much longer.

  I hear the mountains tremble

  as the people march upon them

  and the mansions of the rich crumble

  Do not keep me, then, mother

  as I too must go

  to make the bright sun rise.

  Translated from the Bangla; translator unknown

  Pash (1950-88)

  No, I Am Not Losing My Sleep

  No

  I am not losing my sleep over

  how and when

  you’ll strike

  to finish me off

  frankly, I couldn’t care less

  about it

  because

  I don’t have the patience

  of a watchman

  to be on an eternal guard

  to sift and filter

  countless moments

  to await

  the time slot

  your henchmen have fixed for me.

  No

  I don’t waste my time thinking about such trifles

  nor am I sentimental about

  my memories of my village

  and the folks I left behind

  No I don’t think now about

  such things as

  the fine hues of red

  when the sun sets over the village

  nor do I care about

  how she feels.

  Translated from the Punjabi by Suresh Sethi

  Narayan Surve (b. 1926)

  Lifetime

  A whole lifetime assigned to me:

  even the light when I was born

  was assigned to me;

  I said the things I was assigned to say.

  Cursing under my breath,

  I walked the street assigned to me;

  I came back to the room

  assigned to me;

  I lived the life I was assigned to live.

  They say we go to heaven

  if we follow the path assigned to us.

  Between the four pillars assigned to us

  I spit:

  there.

  Translated from the Marathi by Vinay Dharwadker

  Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena (1927-83)

  Red Bicycle

  A red b
icycle

  Stood against the thorn-bush

  All night.

  I heard the policemen’s whistles

  And the sound of their heavy boots.

  Next morning

  A boy turned up from somewhere

  And started ringing

  Its moist cold bell.

  A patrol car, its siren on,

  Screeched to a halt.

  The boy saw the starlike

  Blue lights on its roof.

  And forgot the bell.

  Then the car left with the boy.

  For the first time

  I saw the window bars’ shadow

  Fall across the floor of my room

  And was afraid.

  Translated from the Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra

  Nirala (1899-1961)

  Breaking Stones

  By a road in Allahabad

  I saw a woman

  breaking stones.

  No tree to give her shade,

  A dark skin,

  Firm tightly cupped breasts,

  Eyes fixed on the ground,

  Thoughts of the night before

  Going through her mind,

  She brought down the heavy hammer

  Again and again, as though it were

  A weapon in her hand.

  Across the road—

  A row of trees, high walls,

  The mansions of the rich.

  The sun climbed the sky.

  The height of summer.

  Blinding heat, with the loo blowing hard,

  Scorching everything in its path.

  The earth under the feet

  Like burning cotton wool,

  The air full of dust and sparks.

  It was getting to noon,

  And she was still breaking stones.

  As I watched,

  She looked at me once,

  Then at the houses opposite,

  Then at her ragged clothes.

  Seeing no one was around,

  She met my eyes again

  With eyes that spoke of pain

  But not defeat.

  Suddenly, there came the notes of a sitar,

  Such as I had not heard before.

  The next moment her young body

  Quivered and as sweat

  Trickled, down her face, she lifted

  the hammer, resuming work,

  As though to say

  ‘I’m breaking stones.’

  Translated from the Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra

  Chandrashekara Patil (b. 1939)

  Once Upon a Time

  Once upon a time,

  my friends,

  this sky knew no limit

  and this earth, no boundary.

  Whatever you shouted then

 

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