These My Words
Page 21
became a song. But
none listened.
Wherever your feet took you
became a path. But
none to follow you.
But when lips are sealed
and feet chained,
just a struggle of the feet
(the chains may not be broken, but . . .)
you might light up
the milky way in the sky.
Just an attempt to break the silence—
(you may not produce a syllable, but . . .)
the earth might
break out into a chorus.
Translated from the Kannada by the poet
Purandara Dasa (1484-1564)
Where Are the Untouchables
There are no untouchables, they aren’t even
In the neighbourhood of the untouchables.
He is an untouchable who under his wife’s
Control insults his parents;
She, an untouchable who, having borne
Many children and now old, hates her husband.
He is an untouchable who, having studied
From a teacher, torments his elders;
She an untouchable who, attracted by other men,
Dislikes her own husband.
He was protected by a master but being
Ungrateful he quarrelled with him. He is an untouchable.
She in poverty scolds her husband every now and then;
She, indeed, is an untouchable.
He is an untouchable who, wallowing in
Sin, has free sex with other women.
She is an untouchable who quarrels,
Argues and is epileptic and evil-natured.
He is an untouchable who, not sympathising
With the distressed, lives without concern.
She who is involved in love-acts in her
Youth, is a real untouchable.
One who knows not the holy waters and
God’s sacred flowers is an untouchable.
She, not engaged in
Other-worldly knowledge hates the sages, is an
untouchable.
He is the greatest untouchable who worships
Not Narayan, father of Brahma.
She is a low untouchable who has abandoned
The real master, Purandar Vitthal.
Translated from the Kannada by Keshav Mutalik
Gieve Patel (b. 1940)
Continuum
Do you ascribe to me coarse feelings
And obsessiveness
The way I grossly return
To nerve endings?
I am continuum with the century’s skin.
I am horribly bruised each time it is struck.
But why isolate, you say, mere anatomy
In the poet’s abundant chamber;
Why endlessly squint at ragged fibres?
A chorale daily rises
From the world’s forsaken cellars
Where tormentor coaxes
A song from an object:
A song of ravaged pitch,
The century’s folk song.
And would you have me ignore it?
English
Anon
From Bharath
An Epic of the Dungri Bhils
Pandu, the King
One day the Sun declined behind the western hills.
The Sun declined behind the western hills.
The parakeets returned to their nests.
Lamps were lit at every niche in the palace.
Lamps were lit at every niche in the palace.
Pandu, the king, had drifted into deep slumber.
Pandu, the king, dreamt a dream.
He dreamt a dream.
Iyaro, the God of Hunting, appeared in his dream.
‘Go out hunting in the Meru-Sumeru mountains,
O king,’ said the deity.
‘Go out hunting in the Meru-Sumeru mountains.’
The king awoke with a start.
‘What a strange dream I had,’ pondered he.
‘What a strange dream I had!’
He kept tossing and turning in bed.
The waking cock’s crowing heralded the day.
The waking cock’s crowing heralded the day.
The first streak of light brightened the sky.
Pandu, the king, pondered for a while.
He pondered for a while.
He cleaned his teeth and rinsed his mouth.
Pandu offered prayers to the rising Sun.
He offered prayers to the rising Sun.
He picked up his bows and arrows.
Pandu’s bow was full six cubits long.
His bow was full six cubits long.
His quiver contained seven long arrows.
Pandu, the king, put up a hide on the mountain.
The king put up a hide on the mountain.
But not a single animal came that way.
The Sun rose high in the sky.
The Sun rose high in the sky.
The earth turned into a heated hearth.
The king was thirsty, his throat became parched.
The king was thirsty, his throat became parched.
In search of water he set out.
By following a trail of animals,
By following a trail of animals,
Pandu reached the Khanda lake.
Pandu quenched his thirst with the water of the lake.
He quenched his thirst with the water of the lake.
He erected a hide to conceal himself.
Pandu saw a pair of deer coming by.
He saw a pair of deer coming by.
Holding his breath, the king waited for them.
The stag and his doe approached the lake.
The stag and his doe approached the lake.
As they came near, the king took aim.
Tambur: O maharaj.
Translated from the Gujarati by Nila Shah
‘SLEEP ON YOUR LEFT SIDE’
Arvind Krishna Mehrotra (b. 1947)
Bhojpuri Descant
I
Piss after dinner,
Sleep on your left side:
You’ll never fall sick.
II
If landlords are saints,
Pestles are bowstrings.
III
Witty landlords,
Wheezy thieves:
Lynch them.
IV
A servant who knows
The secrets of the house,
A pretty wife,
Spetched clothes,
A wicked king:
They need careful handling.
V
A shoe that pinches,
A sharp-tongued wife,
The first-born a daughter
An unproductive farm,
A duncish brother:
They cause endless grief.
VI
A brown she-elephant,
A bald wife,
Rain in winter:
Signs of luck.
VII
Three oxen, two wives:
Death’s at your doorstep.
VIII
A spendthrift son,
A cross-eyed buffalo,
A moody ox:
Get rid of them at once.
IX
An ox with six teeth
Will quickly change hands,
An ox with seven
Will butt its owner,
An ox with nine
Will rush in nine directions
And won’t spare even the family priest.
X
To inspect the teeth
Of a skewbald ox
Is a waste of time.
XI
The thin-tailed ox
With reindeer’s piss
Brings prosperity.
XII
The blue-flanked ox
With purple horns
Can’t be wrong.
XIII
One plough is death,
Two’s survival,
Three’s good business,
Four’s a kingdom.
XIV
A wise farmer does his own tilling,
The one less wise walks beside his team,
But the farmer who goes looking for tillmen
Forfeits his seed.
XV
A small ploughshare
Tickles the field.
XVI
A kite’s screech from atop a ruin:
Sign of rain.
A chameleon
Scrambles up the bole
Tail-first: Expect a flood.
XVIII
Clouds throughout the day,
A clear sky at night:
Famine.
XIX
The clouds from the west are misers.
(After Ghagha)
English
Bhavabhuti (c. 725 CE)
From Act 2
Rama’s Last Act
This is the very same forest I am seeing again today
where once—it was many years ago—I long sojourned,
both hermit and householder devoted to my own dharma,
who came to know the sweet taste of worldly pleasures.
Those are the same mountains, where peacocks used to cry,
those, the same forest-reaches with their deer in heat,
those, the riverbanks with their lovely reeds and vines
and rushes blue-black and thickly clumped together.
And what looms in the distance there like a wreath of clouds
is Mount Prasravana. where the Godavari River runs.
On that mountain’s high peak the king of vultures once lived
and on the lower slopes we enjoyed our leaf-thatched huts
by the Godavari. where the forest lay spread out
alive with cooing birds, splendid with dark trees.
Translated from the Sanskrit by Sheldon I. Pollock
Gopal Honnalgere (1942-2003)
How to Tame a Pair of New Chappals
don’t keep them together
don’t allow them to talk to each other
they may form a trade union
don’t leave them anytime near
a wall-clock, law-books, calendar, national flag
gandhi’s portrait or newspaper
they may come to know about
independence day, satyagraha,
holidays, working hours, minimum wages and corruption
don’t take them to your temple
they may at once come to know you are weak
your god is false and start biting you
don’t take them anytime close to your dining table
they may ask for food
or cast their evil eyes on your sumptuous dinner
first use them only for short walks
then gradually increase the distance
they should never know the amount of work they have to do
pull their tight straps loose
let them feel happy
they are growing bigger
smear some old oil on the rough straps
let them feel they are anointed
now they are good subdued labourers
ready to work overtime
for your fat feet
English
Dharmakirti (c. 7 CE)
The Tradition
No one behind, no one ahead.
The paths the ancients cleared have closed.
And the other path, everyone’s path,
easy and wide, goes nowhere.
I am alone and find my way.
Translated from the Sanskrit by Octavio Paz
Siddalingaiah (b. 1954)
I Must Have a Word
I must have a word
with cactuses and thorny plants.
I must put a question
to the moon
whose light is stolen.
I must free
the blood-red roses
from their thorns.
Wells without water,
shameless politicians,
cops who move
with clubs
like thorny bushes,
Oh world,
I must have words with you.
We must speak
while there may be time
to grow the colour green again
in this, our world,
daily done to death,
our mountains trucked away,
our clinging grass
plucked up, the desert sands
allotted all the land
as if in triplicate,
passed on by bureaucrats,
who take the bribes of winds.
And each branch burns now
along with the voice of reason,
allowed to wither,
held in jails, barred
like woodsheds.
All the great
fruits wither, mango,
jack-fruit, wisdom of the ages,
the soft plum of gentleness.
Oh world, I must stop you,
We must have words, and now.
Translated from the Kannada by Sumatheendra Nadig and David Ray
Vallana (c. 900 CE-1100 CE)
The Oblique Invitation
Traveller, hurry your steps, be on your way:
the woods are full of wild animals,
snakes, elephants, tigers and boars,
the sun’s going down and you’re so young to be going alone.
I can’t let you stay,
for I’m a young girl and no one’s home.
Translated from the Sanskrit by Octavio Paz
Ravidas (1376-1448)
I’ve Never Known How to Tan or Sew
I’ve never known how to tan or sew,
though people come to me for shoes.
I haven’t the needle to make the holes
or even the tool to cut the thread.
Others stitch and knot, and tie themselves in knots
while I, who do not knot, break free.
I keep saying Ram and Ram says Ravidas,
and Death keeps his business to himself.
Translated from the Hindi by J. S. Hawley and Mark Juergensmeyer
Jibanananda Das (1899-1954)
A Strange Darkness
A strange darkness found the world today.
The blind have clearest sight: that is the way.
To move, the world must take the fine advice
Of the heartless, ignorant of pity’s sway.
While those for whom it is naturally understood
To do what’s tested, or to say what’s good—
To strive for spirit’s aim that is past price—
Vulture and jackal have their hearts for food.
Translated from the Bangla by Joe Winter
Kabir (c. 14 CE)
Let’s Go
Let’s go
Everyone keeps saying, as if they know where Paradise is.
But ask them what lies beyond
The street they live on,
They’ll give you a blank look.
If Paradise is where they’re heading,
Paradise is not where they’ll end up.
And what if the talk of Paradise is just hearsay?
You better check out the place yourself.
As for me, says Kabir, if you’re listening,
Good company is all I seek.
Translated from the Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Vemana (c. 17 CE/18 CE)
Why Marry?
Why marry?
Why have children?
Why fall into grief?
It’s madness—
Like lifting
a heavy stone
from the ground
onto
your
head.
*
A blister on a rich man’s back
becomes quite newsworthy.
Who has heard of a wedding
&nb
sp; in a poor man’s house?
*
Fast,
and you’ll be born
as the village pig.
Practice rigors,
and you’ll be born
poor.
Bow to stones
and you’ll turn into
a lifeless statue.
Translated from the Telugu by J.S.R.L. Narayana Moorty and Elliot Roberts
Kanaka Ha Ma (b. 1964)
Series of Omens
Don’t disbelieve omens
Omens are clues
Warnings from the soil
Shrivelling up again and again.
Dying even as they sprout—
A broken clay lamp,
A discarded puppet, suffocated in its own swaddling.
A neglected devi in the corner of a village, unworshipped, wrathful
A series of nightmares.
The residue of past karma
Or this life’s folly—
Torment churning ceaselessly in a whirlpool—
Finally ends
Next morning.
Sunshine
The clues connect—
A line of a poem read somewhere
Two birds flying in the sky
Sparrows nesting in a loft
The odour of neelanjana, always burning
The creeper in the backyard, flowering . . .
Translated from the Kannada by the poet and Priya D’Souza
Anon (c. 13 CE)
From The Art of the Courtesan
Grasp those who are sincere in love;
Ensnare the noble ones with a show of affection;
Win over the poets by a display of passion;
Give food and clothes to maids;
Respect greatly the man useful in future;
Take you my counsel, my daughter.
Charm the celibate ones with words, the friends with smiles,
The dependants with gifts,
The family men with affected indignation,
The lovers with bewitching glances,
The foolish ones with tears of joy,
The king with enticing charms;
The sensualists with tact;
The noble ones with magic potion,
The poets by lending your ears to their verses,
And your own relations in other ways.
Translated from the Malayalam (Manipravalan) by P. Narayana Kurup
Ravji Patel (1939-68)
That Afternoon
See, the sarus crane has flown
From the patch at the edge of my field.
Mother, let the buttermilk go back into the pot,
And wrap up the bread.
There’s no life left in this tobacco and pipe.