These My Words
Page 20
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