Let the fire smouldering below these ashes
Die; and let me
Lie down in the shade of the mahua tree.
Never mind if the whole sky
Comes pouring down,
Or the grass grows as tall as myself.
Hey, you there,
Don’t let the bullocks draw the plough
Over that patch at the edge of my field.
Translated from the Gujarati by Suguna Ramanathan and Rita Kothari
Rabindranath Tagore (1866-1941)
They Call You Mad
They call you mad. Wait for tomorrow
and keep silent.
They throw dust upon your head. Wait
for tomorrow. They will bring
their wreath.
They sit apart in their high seat. Wait
for tomorrow. They will come
down and bend their head.
English
From Jayavallabha’s Vajjalagam (c. 8 CE)
What She Told Her Daughter about Unchaste Women
Dear daughter, don’t cry
That you have been married to an old man.
It is a nice village
Which has arbours nearby;
And a temple hidden by trees.
Frequented by numerous youths.
Dear daughter,
There are hemp fields to the east
And asoka groves to the west;
To the south there is a banyan tree.
Surely, one can’t find such a village
Unless one had done meritorious deeds earlier.
Daughter clear,
The stigma of chastity
has never touched our family—
With blessings from gods
And Brahmins—
Until this day.
Translated from the Prakrit by H.V. Nagaraja Rao and T.R.S. Sharma
The Dhammapada (c. 4 CE/5 CE)
From The Fool
Chapter V
60. Long is the night to him who is awake; long is a mile to him who is tired; long is life to the foolish who do not know the true law.
61. If a traveller does not meet with one who is his better, or his equal, let him firmly keep to his solitary journey; there is no companionship with a fool.
62. ‘These sons belong to me, and this wealth belongs to me,’ with such thoughts a fool is tormented. He himself does not belong to himself; how much less sons and wealth?
63. The fool who knows his foolishness, is wise at least so far. But a fool who thinks himself wise, he is called a fool indeed.
64. If a fool be associated with a wise man even all his life, he will perceive the truth as little as a spoon perceives the taste of soup.
65. If an intelligent man be associated for one minute only with a wise man, he will soon perceive the truth, as the tongue perceives the taste of soup.
Translated from the Pali by F. Max Muller
Namdeo Dhasal (b. 1949)
Stone Masons, My Father, and Me
Stone masons give stones dreams to dream;
I set a match to fireworks.
They say one mustn’t step into
one’s father’s life:
I do; I scratch
his elbows,
his armpits.
Stone masons give stones flowers;
I play horns and trumpets.
I overtake the Parsi who stands
turned to stone
by the bodies of four women
bent like bows.
I see my father’s bloodied rump.
In the chaos of the dark
I smoke a cheroot
and smoulder with memories
till my lips get burnt.
Stone masons inseminate stones;
I count exhausted horses.
I harness myself to a cart; I handle
my father’s corpse; I burn.
Stone masons mix blood with stones;
I carry a load of stones.
Stone masons build
a stone house.
I break heads with stones.
Translated from the Marathi by Vinay Dharwadker
Kabir (c. 14 CE)
Listen Carefully
Listen carefully,
Neither the Vedas
Nor the Qur’an
Will teach you this.
Put the bit in its mouth,
The saddle on its back,
Your foot in the stirrup,
And ride your wild runaway mind
All the way to heaven.
Translated from the Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
M. Gopalakrishna Adiga (1918-92)
Do Something, Brother
Do something, brother:
something, anything:
You mustn’t be idle.
Pull out this plant, nip this little leaf,
crunch that flower.
There’s grass, run
your faggots through.
Butterflies, parrots, sparrows—chase
them, hold them, cage them, pluck
their wings and pull their fur and feather.
There in the garden grow, for the wild elephant’s feet,
jasmine and the banana’s gold.
All over your walls
virility’s master switchboards
itch for your fingers. Close
your eyes and pull twenty down.
Earth, water, the skies, they are all
your geese with golden eggs.
Gouge them: slash them.
‘Do, or die,’ they say.
For your genius’ galloping dance
disasters are the test
Brother, act, act at once, do something.
Thought’s weights and measures
are all for the past,
for the dead’s undying ghostly treasures
There’s the forest, cut it
clean to the stump, slit it for your buntings.
You have the axe, the sickle, the saw
and the knife; go, harvest all the world
with a flourish of your hand—
But
winter mists:
light foggy walls that line
the space between your face and mine:
the road sighs and breaks in two
under the eyes,
a couple of mountain peaks rear their hoods
and lower upon your head;
or lightning winks from sirens
that sing on every tree:
do they plunge you
into anxieties and dilemmas of reason?
No, no, this won’t do.
You are a simple man,
and that’s your strength.
Horse-sense and the blinkers
are your forté.
Eat what comes to the hand; crush what you touch;
cut the hindering vines.
Mother Earth herself, though tired,
lies open to the skies: there’s still flesh
upon her bone marrow for your hunger.
Come, come, brother, never forget
that you are a man.
Then there’s the well. Rope
the wheel and axle, pull all
the water out. Reach the last dryness
of the rock: group, grope with the grappling iron.
‘V for Victory’, brother.
Gain the God’s own arrow,
and aim it straight to the heart
of God’s own embryo-world.
Do something, anything,
anything, brothers.
Idle men
are burdens on the land.
Do brother, do something.
Keep doing something all the time
to lighten Mother Earth’s loads.
This is right. This is natural.
This is the one thing needful.
Translated from the Kannada by A.K. Ramanujan
Asvaghosa(18 CE)
From Buddhacarita
Canto 3
heard some songs
composed about the parks, with their soft meadows
and adorned with lotus pools,
their trees sounding with cuckoos.
Then after hearing of the lovely nature
of the parks of the city, which were loved by the women,
He set his mind on an excursion outside,
like an elephant shut inside a home.
Then the King having heard of the feelings
of that desired object his ‘son’
gave orders for a pleasure trip,
suited to his affection, fortune and age.
He diverted from the Royal Way
the distressed press of common people,
Thinking: ‘Let not the Prince, whose thoughts are delicate,
have his mind disturbed.’
Then after very gently driving away
those who were lacking limbs and those whose senses were defective,
Those who were disabled by age and so on, the pitiful, in all
directions,
they made the Royal Way very beautiful.
Then, when the Royal Way was made beautiful.
the famous Prince, with disciplined followers,
Descended from the top of the palace at the proper time
and went to the King, being given leave.
Then indeed the King, his fear welling up,
kissed his son’s head, gazed at him for a long time,
And ordered: ‘Go!’ with a word,
but through affection did not let him go with his mind.
Then he mounted a golden chariot,
yoked with four quiet horses
Bearing trappings of finest gold,
whose charioteer was brave, wise and true.
Then with a befitting retinue
he reached the road which was scattered with
brilliant bouquets of flowers,
Hung with garlands, with trembling bunting,
like the Moon with a constellation in the sky.
Very slowly he entered the Royal Way
which was as if strewn with halves of blue waterlilies,
As he was being looked at by the citizens all around,
their eyes expanded wide with curiosity.
Some praised him for his charming qualities
and others saluted him for his brilliance,
But some wished him fortune (sovereignty)
and length of life, because of his cheerfulness.
Hunchbacks and groups of mountain tribesmen and dwarfs
slipped out of the great houses,
And women from the little houses;
they bowed as to the banner in the procession of the god (Indra).
Then hearing the news from the servants:
‘The Prince is going!’
Women went to the balconies of the palaces wishing to see him,
being given leave by their elders.
Obstructed by untied girdle strings,
their eyes confused as they awakened from sleep,
Putting on their ornaments at the news,
they gathered noisily through curiosity.
Frightening the multitudes of house-birds
with loud noise on the stairs and balconies of the palaces,
with clamour of girdles and sounds of anklets,
rebuking each other’s haste.
Canto 8
Then the groom depressed,
when his selfless master had gone to the forest,
Made an effort to restrain his grief on the road,
yet his tears were not exhausted.
But the road which he had traversed in one night
on his master’s order, with that horse,
That same way now took him eight days,
as he reflected on the absence of his master.
And the strong horse Kanthaka wandered
pained in feelings, dispirited,
Though adorned with jewellery
he was as if shorn of beauty, without him.
And returning towards the forest of asceticism
he neighed violently, pathetically, over and over again;
Though hungry on the road he did not approve, nor take
either young grass or water,
Then gradually those two approached the city called Kapila,
deserted by that illustrious one who was devoted to the welfare
of the world;
It was as if empty,
like the sky deprived of the Sun.
Translated from the Sanskrit by A.K. Warder
Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih (b. 1964)
Lines Written to Mothers Who Disagree with Their Sons’ Choices of Women
For managing to love
an object of scorn
they place around my neck
a garland of threats.
And the world is cold this winter,
cold as the matrimonial column
they lecture to my sewn-shut ears,
or the stares that stalk
the woman of my choice.
But the cherries are pink
and festive as her love.
Leave cherries to winter, mother,
love to seasoned lovers.
Translated from the Khasi by the poet
Siddaramayya (12 CE)
Know How to Tell
Know how to tell
a mahout from a goatherd
and learn to sit as the simian sits.
Know the ways
of the mad man’s mind
Know how to shed the darkness within.
Kapilasiddhamallinathayya,
let me in on the views
of a child.
Translated from the Kannada by B.C. Ramchandra Sharma
Vijay Nambisan (b. 1963)
Madras Central
The black train pulls in at the platform,
Hissing into silence like hot steel in water.
Tell the porters not to be so precipitate—
It is good, after a desperate journey,
To rest a moment with your perils upon you.
The long rails recline into a distance
Where tomorrow will come before I know it.
I cannot be in two places at once:
That is axiomatic. Come, we will go and drink
A filthy cup of tea in a filthy restaurant.
It is difficult to relax. But my head spins
Slower and slower as the journey recedes.
I do not think I shall smoke a cigarette now.
Time enough for that. Let me make sure first
For the hundredth time, that everything’s complete.
My wallet’s in my pocket; the white nylon bag
With the papers safe in its lining-fine;
The book and my notes are in the outside pocket;
The brown case is here with all its straps secure.
I have everything I began the journey with,
And also a memory of my setting out
When I was confused, so confused. Terrifying
To think we have such power to alter our states,
Order comings and goings: know where we’re not wanted
And carry our unwantedness somewhere else.
English
Sarangapani (18 CE)
A Wife’s Complaint
How is this household
going to survive?
Tell me what to do
with all these lewd antics
of lord Venugopala,
scion of the Gokula clan.
Takes no care of his house.
Finds good advice bitter.
Wants special meals.
Hangs out with pimps.
Tell me what to do
Sleeps in whorehouses.
Throws away money on sluts.
Scratches his creditors
for luxuries,
with not a drop of ghee<
br />
in our house.
Tell me what to do
But there’s no end of dancing songs,
not to speak of the lute.
He bet on cocks at the fights
Tell me what to do
I have a single sari to wear and to wash.
Can’t even mention a second blouse
Tumeric has become my gold,
and my ears are bare.
Tell me what to do
And then I have to listen daily
to his affairs with those women.
Even my curses don’t stir him.
It’s been seven years
since we’ve been to bed.
Women of my age
are mothers of children.
Tell me what to do
Translated from the Telugu by A.K. Ramanujan, Velcheru Narayana Rao and David Shulman
Devara Dasimayya (c. 11 CE)
Fire Can Burn
Fire can burn
but cannot move.
Wind can move
but cannot burn.
Till fire joins wind
it cannot take a step.
Do men know
it’s like that
with knowing and doing?
Translated from the Kannada by A.K. Ramanujan
Hemacandra Suri (12 CE)
O Learned Man
O learned man,
rare are those
who are wise
and perfect in every way,
those that are clever
are taken to be cheats;
and those that talk straight
are dull as bullocks.
Translated from the Prakrit by H.V Nagaraja Rao and T.R.S. Sharma
Sami (1743-1850)
Six Shastras, Eight Puranas, and Four Vedas
Six Shastras, eight Puranas, and four Vedas the same truth
proclaim:
Why wander like maniacs from place to place?
Seek divine communion, igniting eternal flame,
And behold Him even in the market place.
Translated from the Sindhi by Shanti Shahani
Vijayalakshmi (b. 1960)
What Shall We Sell Next?
Come, tradesmen,
With bulging bags of gold;
They are calling you
to sell the river, the wind,
the sunlight and the rain,
to sell the beauties of the fourteenth night,
to sell the pure notes of the dawn’s music,
for you to buy.
Come, you can snuff out
These My Words Page 22