the beauties of the tall, blue hills,
And root out the green trees of the forest.
You man come and pack
the cold and the mist; don’t forget!
They are calling you
with an ironed out smile on the lips,
they who are determined
to make mincemeat of the land
and sell it out.
See, they are trumpeting,
you may cut the land
with your butchers’ knife:
But there is something more to sell:
The men who adorn their neck
with the trump card of discretion
A hundred thousand men.
Even their flesh is worth nothing
who will now come to buy them?
Translated from the Malayalam by C.P. Sivadasan
Anon
From Sutrakritanga (c. 6 BCE-3 BCE)
A Celibate Monk Shouldn’t Fall in Love
A celibate monk shouldn’t fall in love,
and though he hankers after pleasure he should hold himself
in check
for these are the pleasures which some monks enjoy.
If a monk breaks his vows.
and falls for a woman,
she upbraids him and raises her foot to him.
and kicks him on the head.
‘Monk, if you won’t live with me
as husband and wife,
I’ll pull out my hair and become a nun,
for you shall not live without me!’
But when she has him in her clutches
it’s all housework and errands!
‘Fetch a knife to cut this gourd!
Get me some fresh fruit!’
‘We want wood to boil the greens,
and for a fire in the evening!
Now paint my feet!
Come and massage my back!’
‘Get me my lip salve!
Find my sunshade and slippers!
I want a knife to cut these leaves!
Take my robe and have it dyed blue!’
‘Fetch me my tweezers and my comb!
Get me a ribbon to tie my hair!
Now pass me my looking-glass!
Go and fetch me my toothbrush!’
‘Fetch the pot and the drum and the rag-ball,
for our little boy to play with!
Monk, the rains are on the way,
patch the roof of the house and look to the stores!’
‘See to getting that chair upholstered!
Fetch my wooden-soled slippers to go out walking!’
So pregnant women boss their husbands,
just as though they were household slaves.
When a child is born, the reward of their labours,
she makes the father hold the baby.
And sometimes the fathers of sons
stagger under their burdens like camels.
They get up at night, as though they were nurses,
to lull the howling child to sleep,
and, though they are shame-faced about it,
scrub dirty garments, just like washermen . . .
So, monks, resist the wiles of women,
avoid their friendship and company.
The little pleasure you get from them
will only lead you into trouble!
Translated from the Prakrit by A.L. Basham
A.K. Ramanujan (1929-93)
The Guru
Forgive the weasel his tooth
forgive the tiger his claw
but do not forgive the woman
her malice or the man his envy
said the guru, as he moved on
to ask me to clean his shoe,
bake his bread and wash his clothes.
Give the dog his bone, the parrot
his seed, the pet snake his mouse
but do not give woman her freedom
nor man his midday meal till he begs
said the guru, as he went on
his breakfast of eggs and news
asking me to carry his chair to the dais.
I gave the dog his bone, the parrot
his seed, the pet snake his mouse,
forgave the weasel his tooth,
forgave the tiger his claw,
and left the guru to clean his own shoe
for I remembered I was a man born of woman.
English
‘LIGHT LIKE ASH’
Mamang Dai (b. 1959)
A Stone Breaks the Sleeping Water
I wish I had inherited fruit trees.
Tall, full grown trees
with flowering branches and ancient roots
nothing vanishes so surely as childhood
the life of clay, the chemistry of colour
this I realise in the season of dying
in the month of the red lotus
when a stone breaks the sleeping water
Where eyes meet the dawn
claiming the course of a river, a stream
I wish I could fulfill impersonation of a life
and inherit each simple hour
protected by innocence.
Now when it rains
I equate the white magnolia with perfect joy
Spring clouds, stroke of sunlight
The brushstrokes of my transformed heart.
English
Joy Goswami (b. 1954)
A Mound of Earth, a Heart
A mound of earth a heart
Crowned by a set of bones, playing
Bones. Dice. Bones.
A mound of earth, a heart
Could you claim the right to spade and shovel
Digging hands bare?
Clumps come away lumps of earth
Flesh earth flesh earth—
Dice. Bones. Dice.
Far off, the lacerated world
Is still afloat, could you offer it a fistful
Of earth a handful of heart—
Would you dare?
Translated from the Bangla by Sampurna Chattarji
Pranabendu Dasgupta (b. 1937)
Man: 1961
In a big wind, in a ruined house
trembling, he holds
with one hand the woman at his side,
while the other confuses him,
lacking a place to rest.
On a margosa tree the pigeons settle.
Facing a harrowing hill,
facing the darkness of
a heaving, wearisome sea,
he cannot find
a private view, a landscape of his own.
In a big wind, in a ruined
house he sways, he trembles.
Translated from the Bangla by Buddhadeva Bose
Anon, Kashmiri Song (c. 18 CE)
Nostalgia
I made nosegays of jasmine in the garden,
And went to the bazaar after six long months,
There I met my dear father;
He met me there and took me to his attic.
There he made a cushion for me to sit on;
He lit a lamp and placed it in the cranny,
He opened a book and read it to me;
Softly I began to reveal my heart,
Silently I began to shed big tears;
Fondly he placed his hand on my head.
‘My daughter, you return to your in-laws,’ he said;
‘The house of your in-laws is now your abode.
Your father’s house to you is of no avail.’
A mother’s house is the royal house;
A brother’s house is just a hope.
Translated from the Kashmiri by Shafi Shauq
B.B. Borkar (1910-84)
Cemetery
A cemetery within earshot, at least for the mind;
be accustomed to its proximity,
above all, at dusk
Read over its arched entrance
the terse message of the dead:
My turn today, yours tomorrow.
Sit on the cold cement seat
distilling that moral,
bathing in the equinoxial wind
to the soft sound of falling leaves.
On the wings of the soul
roam in the ash-blue sky.
Returning carefree to your former serenity,
make detachment burning-hot, intense,
like rising stars;
turn the leaves minute by minute
close to you, delectable.
Enlightened, see the pyres of your dear ones
come alive,
and your own pyre too;
in the dance of the fire, contemplate Eternity.
Become a flame of prayer
till the mark of grace is on your forehead
—the moon’s curved form in sandalwood paste.
And the body limp like a plantain-leaf
to fertilise the living earth with inspiration.
Translated from the Marathi by Vrinda Nabar and Nissim Ezekiel
G.S. Sharat Chandra (1935-2000)
Facts of Life
My father, teetotaler, vegetarian,
took two baths a day,
one at dawn the other
before his evening obeisance
to Lord Shiva at the temple.
Cleanliness of forms,
the given and the gifted,
adherence to principles,
honesty, truth, purity,
were things he’d die for.
Yet he died of a malignancy
whose virtue was pillage,
whose form spread
from viscera to vision,
from body to soul.
Now he who loved roses
lies buried within the limits
of his caste’s cemetery
by the river Kabini
where the banyans sway,
where transients and pilgrims
come to celebrate Shiva’s victory
over one demon or another
see its tall crabgrass
their revelries to defecate.
English
Bhatti (c. 6 CE)
From The Death of Ravana, Canto 18
Vibhishana’s Lament for Ravana
Grief envelops my heart, it is as if my being ceases, grief
wipes out my sight, without you I lose my strength.
Who does not know that no one else but you was so fond
of his relatives? I call into the void, how can I smother my
rising anguish?
......
Even though bereft of you we continue with our duties
and we decide on life: a curse on the greed that wrecks
obligation
If you do not give me word I will crush my own body, for
the recollection of your virtues is increasing my grief.
Who will laughingly take off his own garland and garland
me? Who will bring me near to his seat? Who will speak
sweetly to me?
I shall not go back to Lanka so long as I live. When will I
have delight if I never see you?
For within an hour I will die afflicted, my kinsmen slain. I
gave good advice in council, I never did anything displeasing
to you.
Translated from the Sanskrit by Oliver Fallon
Dursa Adha (1533-1654)
On Hearing of Pratap’s Passing Away
You are gone, O Pratap, and no more.
But whilst you lived,
Your steed remained unbranded,
And your turban unlowered in obeisance to mortal man;
Still you defied dread sovereign Akbar—
Steadfastly from the very beginning;
And minstrels sang of your exploits
Throughout the land.
Never once did you go to the Navroz fairs,
Nor ever to the royal camps, nor court,
To stand in submission before the Emperor
Beneath his balconies.
Greatest among all you were;
And unbeaten—indeed in triumph—
O Gehlot King, you departed this world.
At the news of your passing away, O Pratap,
In speechless wonder
Did the Emperor bite his lip;
And he heaved a sigh of dismay,
And tears welled up in his eyes.
Translated from the Rajasthani by Kesri Singh
Adil Jussawalla (b. 1940)
Nine Poems on Arrival
Spiders infest the sky.
They are palms, you say,
hung in a web of light.
Gingerly, thinking of concealed
springs and traps, I step off the plane,
expect take-off on landing.
Garlands beheading the body
and everybody dressed in white.
Who are we ghosts of?
You. You. You.
Shaking hands. And you.
Cold hands. Cold feet. I thought
the sun would be lower here
to wash my neck in.
Contact. We talk a language of beads
along well-established wires.
The beads slide, they open, they
devour each other.
Some were important.
Is that one,
as deep and dead as the horizon?
Upset like water
I dive for my favourite tree
which is no longer there
though they’ve let its roots remain.
Dry clods of earth
tighten their tiny faces
in an effort to cry. Back
where I was born,
I may yet observe my own birth.
English
Ramakanta Rath (b. 1934)
Reports of Your Passing
Reports of your passing away
have reached us here.
Don’t count me
among your widows,
or among those who carry your body
in funeral procession.
Your body, mercifully,
is far, far away.
In the parting of my hair,
the vermillion mark
is brighter than ever.
Now stop joking,
become the bridegroom,
and come.
I wear
the bride’s heavy silk
and gold.
My bangles
tinkle and snub
all scandals.
You no longer are
anyone’s father, son, husband.
You are the pure naughtiness
of our last night together,
the voice,
that teases me,
and the touch that deflowers
the virginity of my loneliness.
Just when I’d start crying
you arrive and tickle
my lifeless longing
into unrestrained laughter.
When they deposit your body
on the pyre,
all that you ever meant to them
will be consumed by the flames.
They would return home
and, a few days later,
would fill your absence
with thoughts of you
and a thousand other things.
My joy today
is uncontrollable.
If you had not died for them,
you would not have become
entirely mine.
Since everyone believes you are dead,
my journeys to the river bank
will now be without fear.
They will forget me,
or sleep like the dead
when I hold you in my arms,
when your hands traverse
my body,
when I renounce all power
to resist, or to speak,
and when it is utterly impossible
for me to die,
or to live.<
br />
Translated from the Oriya by the poet
Indira Sant (1914-2000)
Absence
I learn a hundred things.
I made a thousand decisions.
But at the destined time,
I wasn’t around.
I’m still not around,
wiped out that very second
as the wild lightning
Flashes out, disappears,
It was all over with me
Though I was there alright.
The quivering eyelids,
The parted lips,
The rapid breath,
The very same woman.
Translated from the Marathi by Vrinda Nabar and Nissim Ezekiel
C.P. Surendran (b. 1959)
The Colours of the Season’s Best Dream
Senile dinosaurs wearing white
Block traffic tonight.
Here in the city we drink chilled smog
And eat pickled soot.
We wear snakeskin suits
And our beauties this winter
Look like bruised fruit.
Ambulant screams of red and blue,
And all windows weep
Without seeming to hurt
Sponsors of laundered teeth. Colgate it is.
Smile now, smile right, pursue
The winner through thickets of red light.
The only trouble is the hole
in your baby’s heart
The baby, oh the baby
Flies birds out of his oriental eyes
And his fingers curl like burnt paper
And are light like ash in your skeletal hands.
A moon blooms in the mirror in the doctor’s room,
Trick or treat, it’s blue like the baby’s face.
English
Kedarnath Singh (b. 1934)
Remembering the Year 1947
Kedarnath Singh, do you remember Noor Miyan?
The fair-looking Noor Miyan
The dwarfish Noor Miyan
After selling surma at Ramgadh Bazaar,
he would be the last to come home. . .
What, you remember such trivia too, Kedarnath Singh?
You remember the school . . .
The tamarind tree.
The Imam bada . . .
You remember from the beginning to the end
the multiplication table of nineteen
Can you, from addition and subtraction on your forgotten slate,
deduce why
leaving your colony one day
Noor Miyan had gone away?
Do you know where he is at present?
In Dhaka or Multan?
Do you know how many leaves fall every year in Pakistan?
These My Words Page 23