by Cheran
¶Jô£¶, Þ‰î ܬôè¬óJ™
G¡Á
M‡e¡ CîP‚ è콜
M¿Aø¬îŠ 𣘈FóƒAò 弈FJ¡
Ü™ô¶
ªî£´õ£¡ ªõO H÷‰¶
è¬ó «ê¼‹ ï£õ£Œ‚°‚
裈F¼‰î Þ¡ªù£¼ˆFJ¡
ªõÁ‹ ñ£˜H™ ¹ó‡ì ñE å¡P™
H¡ñ£¬ô, ܉FŠ ªð£¿¶
¹ìI†ì
ªî¡«ù£¬ô 裟ø£´‹ ªõOJ¡
ñ‡ Í®ò ²õ´èO™,
â¡
º¡«ù£˜
M†´Š «ð£»œ÷£˜èœ
âù‚ªè£¼ ªêŒF
ËÁËø£Jó‹ «î£œèO¡e¶
ãP G¡Á,
âù¶ Gô‹ âù à󈶄 ªê£™A«ø¡.
㿠꺈Fó ªõOè¬÷ˆ ®
Üî¡ «ñ™ â¿Aø ܬôè¬÷ eP
Üî¬ù‚ ªè£‡´ «ð£Œ,
⃰‹ åL‚Aø¶ 裟Á
‘âù¶ Gô‹
âù¶ Gô‹.’
MY LAND [1981]
(âù¶ Gô‹)
Nets spread like wings across the wide sea.
Above, the fierce breath of the wind.
From the sea, looking up,
fingers pressed against your flying hair,
you can see the shore,
palmyra palms, and tiled roofs here and there.
The waves, the sea-spray
as the engine roars!
How did such an hour and a half
come to an end?
Later, the wide expanse
with palmyras planted there,
each rising to a man’s height
from the virgin sands.
As for the sand,
it is all golden specks,
seeded mirrors, inhabited by the sun.
Beneath the sand, the land extends
where, two thousand years ago,
my ancestors walked.
Our roots go deep:
one footstep, a thousand years.
Upon the jewels of bare-breasted women –
one, perhaps, standing sleepless by this shore,
watching and lamenting as stars scatter
and fall into the sea –
or another, waiting for a boat
to plunge through the horizon
and come safe ashore –
or upon footsteps buried deep in the sand
one late evening, perhaps, under cover of dusk,
here where the coconut-fronds sway –
my ancestors have left me a message.
I stand on a hundred thousand shoulders
and proclaim aloud: This is my land.
Across the seven seas,
overcoming the rising waves,
the wind shouts it everywhere:
My land
My land.
Þó‡ì£õ¶ ÅKò àîò‹
(A SECOND SUNRISE)
Ü¡¬ø‚°‚ 裟«ø Þ™¬ô;
ܬôèÀ‹ âö£¶ ªêˆ¶Š «ð£JŸÁ
èì™.
ñíL™ 裙 ¹¬îî™ âù
ï쉶 õ¼¬èJ™
ñÁð®»‹ å¼ ÅKò àîò‹.
Þ‹º¬ø ªîŸA«ô
â¡ù G蛉î¶?
âù¶ ïèó‹ âK‚èŠð†ì¶;
âù¶ ñ‚èœ ºèƒè¬÷ Þö‰îù˜,
âù¶ Gô‹, âù¶ 裟Á
â™ô£õŸP½‹
܉GòŠ ðF¾.
¬èè¬÷Š H¡¹ø‹ ÞÁè‚ è†®
ò£¼‚è£è‚ 裈F¼‰b˜èœ?
ºA™èO¡e¶
ªï¼Š¹,
î¡ «êF¬ò â¿Fò£JŸÁ
ÞQ»‹ ò£˜ 裈¶œ÷ù˜?
꣋ð™ Ìˆî ªî¼‚èOL¼‰¶
⿉¶ õ¼è.
A SECOND SUNRISE [1981]
(Þó‡ì£õ¶ ÅKò àîò‹)
No wind that day;
even the sea was dead,
no waves rising.
As I walked along,
feet burrowing deep in the sand,
I saw another sunrise.
In the south, this time.
What happened?
My town was set on fire,
my people lost their faces;
upon our land,
upon the wind that blows upon it,
an alien stamp.
Who were you waiting for,
your hands tied behind your backs?
The fire has written its message
upon the clouds.
Who waits, even now?
From the streets upon which
the embers still bloom,
rise, march forward.
Üõ˜èœ Üõ¬ù„ ²†´‚ ªè£¡ø«ð£¶
(WHEN THEY SHOT HIM DEAD)
Üõ˜èœ Üõ¬ù„
²†´‚ ªè£¡ø«ð£¶
♫ô£¼«ñ 𣘈¶‚ªè£‡´
G¡ø£˜èœ
Þ¡‹ êKò£è„ ªê£™õî£ù£™
Üõ¡ ²ìŠð´õ¬î‚ 裇ðîŸè£è«õ
Üõ˜èœ G¡øù˜
Üõ¬ìò i†¬ì‚
ªè£Àˆî õ‰îõ˜èœ,
ªð†®‚ è¬ìJ™
𣇠õ£ƒèõ‰î Þó‡´ AöMèœ
¬èJ™ èŸèÀì¡
ãó£÷ñ£ù CÁõ˜èœ
ñŸÁ‹,
Ü¡Á «õ¬ô‚°Š «ð£è£î
ñQî˜èœ, ªð‡èœ
Þõ˜èœ ܬùõK¡ º¡Q¬ôJ™
Gî£ùñ£è
Üõ¡ Þø‰¶«ð£ù£¡.
Üõ¡ ªêŒîªî™ô£‹
ÜFèñ£è å¡ÁI™¬ô;
Üõ¬ìò i†®½‹
ÜFèñ£è å¡Á‹ Þ¼‰îF™¬ô.
Ýù£™,
îIö˜èÀ¬ìò i†¬ì‚ ªè£œ¬÷J´õ¬î
ò£˜î£¡ î´‚è º®Aø¶?
Ü¡Á 裬ô»‹ ܶ ïì‰î¶.
ä‹ð¶ «ð˜,
Üõ¬ìò i†¬ì à¬ì‚è õ‰îù˜.
õùˆ F¬í‚è÷ ÜFè£Kò£ù
Üõ¬ìò ÜŠð£M¡ ¶õ‚°
c‡ì è£ôñ£Œ
º¡ù¬øŠ ðóE¡ «ñ«ô Þ¼‰î¶.
¶õ‚¬è Þò‚è Üõ‹ ÜPõ£¡.
ªè£œ¬÷ò®‚è õ‰î
Cƒè÷õ˜e¶ ¶õ‚裙 ²´õ¬îŠ
¹ˆî˜Ãì ÜñF‚è ñ£†ì£˜
â¡ð¬î
Üó² ÜP»‹
ܬñ„ê˜èœ ÜPõ£˜
Üõ¡ âŠð® ÜPõ£¡?
ó£µõ‹, èìŸð¬ì, Mñ£ùŠð¬ì
âù,
♫ô£¼ñ£è ºŸÁ¬èJ†´
Üõ¬ìò i´ âK‰¶õ¼Aø
¹¬èJ¡ H¡ùEJ™
Üõ¬ù‚ ªè£™õ º¡,
Üõ¡ ªêŒîªî™ô£‹
ÜFè‹ å¡ÁI™¬ô
Þó‡´ °‡´èœ
å¡Á Ýè£òˆFŸ°
Ü´ˆî¶ ÌI‚°.
WHEN THEY SHOT HIM DEAD [1983]
(Üõ˜èœ Üõ¬ù„ ²†´‚ ªè£¡ø«ð£¶)
When they shot him dead
everyone stood around, watching.
To tell the tale more truthfully,
they stood about
for the sole purpose of watching him
shot dead:
those who came
to set fire to his house,
two old ladies buying betel leaves
from the local kiosk,
any number of small boys
with stones clutched in their hands,
men and women
who didn’t go to work that day.
In front of all these spectators
he died
quietly.
What he did was nothing much.
There wasn’t a lot
in his house, either.
But
who can prevent
the looting of Tamil houses?
That was all that happened
that morning.
Fifty people came
to break down his house.
His father was an official
in the forestry department;
his gun stored in the loft
for many years.
He knew well enough how to use it.
The Buddha himself would not permit
the shooting of Sinhala soldiers:
the government knew this,
the ministers knew this.
But how was he to know?
Before they all turned up
– army, navy and air force –
laid siege to the house
and shot him against the background
of the rising smoke-plumes,
before all that happened,
what he did was nothing much:
two bullets,
one fired into the air,
the other into the earth.
ó£µõ ºè£IL¼‰¶ è®îƒèœ
(LETTERS FROM AN ARMY CAMP)
1
Ü¡«ð ï‰î£,
Þ¡Á 裬ô õ‰¶«ê˜‰«î£‹.
Hó„C¬ù Þ™¬ô.
ñ®J™
¬óçH¬÷ ÞÁèŠ ðŸPJ¼‰îF™
É‚èºI™¬ô.
èù¾èœ;
I辋 ðòƒèó‹
F¯ªóù MNŠ¹.
óJ™ G¬ôòˆF™
c»‹ ñ£I»‹ Ü¿î Ü¿¬èJ™
ñ ðò‰«î¡.
Ýù£™,
ܬùõ¼‹ âù‚°„ ªê£¡ù¶«ð£ô
õì‚°
ÜŠð® å¡Á‹ ðòƒèóñ£èˆ
ªîKòM™¬ô.
⃰‹ «ð£ô«õ
è¬ìèœ, ªî¼‚èœ,
õ£èù ªïKê™.
ñQî˜èœî£¡ â¬ñŠ 𣘊ð«îJ™¬ô.
êòô£èŠ 𣘂Aø«ð£¶‹
Üõ˜èœ ♫ô£ó¶ è‡èOÛ´‹
ã«î£ å¡Á
Þù‹ ¹Kò£î æ˜ à혾
â¡ùõ£J¼‚°‹ ܶ
âù âù‚°Š ¹Kò«õ Þ™¬ô.
ï£ƒèœ îQˆ îQò£è„
ªê™õ¶ Þòô£¶ â¡ð¬î
c ÜPõ£Œ Ü™ôõ£?
Þó‡´ èõê õ£èùƒèœ,
«õÁ‹ pŠ¹èœ Þó‡´,
Ü™ô¶ Í¡Á,
†ó‚ å¡Á
ÞõŸP™ °¬ø‰î¶
ä‹ð¶ «ðó£õ¶ å¡ø£Œ„ ªê™«õ£‹.
ܶ,
à‡¬ñJ«ô«ò å¼
ÜEõ°Š¹ˆî£¡
²î‰Fó Fù Mö£M™
𣘈F¼Šð£«ò
ÜŠð®ˆî£¡.
Ýù£™, å«óªò£¼ MˆFò£ê‹:
²î‰Fó Fùˆ¶ ÜEõ°ŠH™
âƒèÀ‚° ²î‰Fó‹ Þ¼‰î¶
¶Šð£‚AèÀ‚° °‡´èœ Þ™¬ô.
Þƒ«è£,
¶Šð£‚AèÀ‚° «õ‡´ñ£ù Ü÷¾
°‡´èœ;
Ýù£™, ²î‰Fó‹ Þ™¬ô
2
Þ¡Á º¿õ¶‹ I°‰î ܬô„ê™
ð¬ù ñóƒèÙì£è õ¬÷‰¶ õ¬÷‰¶
ªê™½‹ ªî¼‚èO™
(ܬõ Iè «ñ£ê‹)
èõê õ£èù‹ °½ƒè‚ °½ƒè
Þ´Š¹ ⽋ªð™ô£‹
Hø° å«ó õL.
ñˆFò£ù‹
õò™ªõOèÀ‚° ï´ML¼‰î
å¼ Aó£ñˆF™
Í¡Á ªè£¿ˆî Ý´èœ ²†«ì£‹.
Þ¬÷ë˜èœ Þ™¬ô;
ªð‡èœ æ® åO‰¶ªè£‡ì£˜èœ.
ºè£º‚° eœAø ð£FõNJ™
«ñü¼‚°Kò Cèªó† õ£ƒè
ñø‰¶«ð£ù¬î
å¼õ¡ ë£ðèŠð´ˆî¾‹,
Høªè¡ù?
ÜEõ°Šð£è Üšõ÷¾ «ð¼‹
ï輂°ˆ F¼‹ð «ï˜‰î¶
3
Þ¡Á,
âFKió¾‹, ê‰FóCP»‹
Í¡Á îIö¬ó„ ²†´‚ ªè£¡øù˜.
‘ªï¼‚è® I°‰î ªî¼M™
F¯ªóù Þõ˜èœ 殄 ªê¡ø,
èôõóºŸÁ„ ²†´M†«ì¡’
â¡Á ê‰Fó ªê£¡ù£¡; Hø°,
Mê£ó¬íJ¡P«ò
Þó‡´ «ð¬ó»‹
ªè£¿‹¹‚° ÜŠHù˜
Þìñ£Ÿø‹î£¡.
(ªè£´ˆ¶ ¬õˆîõ˜èœ)
...
ò£¬óò£õ¶ ²†ì£™
Ü™ô¶
êùƒèœe¶ °î™ G蛈Fù£™
i´è¬÷Š ðŸø¬õˆî£™
àìù®ò£è ñ£Ÿø‹ A¬ì‚Aø¶(?)
...
«ïŸÁ‹ 䉶 «ð˜
àìù®ò£è ñ£Ÿø‹ªðŸøù˜.
 õ‰îFL¼‰¶
ªñ£ˆîñ£è ä‹ð¶ «ðó£õ¶
F¼‹H M†ìù˜;
⊫𣶠âù‚° ñ£Ÿø‹ õ¼«ñ£
 ÜP«ò¡.
4
Þ¡Á‹ ¹Fî£è ËÁ «ð˜
âƒèœ ºè£º‚° õ‰îù˜
C¡ùŠ ðò™èœ;
e¬êÃì ܼ‹¹î£¡.
Þò‰Fóˆ ¶õ‚¬è Þò‚°õF«ô£
Fø¬ñ»‹ °¬ø¾ ...
ÞŠ«ð£ªî™ô£‹
ðèL™ ܬô‰¶ FK‰î H¡ù¼‹
ÞóM™ É‚è‹ H®Šð«îJ™¬ô.
c‡ì ï£÷£JŸÁ
࡬ù «ï«ó 𣘈¶.
M´º¬ø â¡ð¶ G¬ù‚è«õ
Þòô£î¶ ...
5
«ïŸÁ Þó¾
âñ¶ HKM¡ ðF¡Í¡Á«ð¬ó
`Üõ˜èœ’ ªè£¡øù˜
°P Hêè£î °‡´ªõ®ŠH¡ H¡
²ŸP õ¬÷ˆîù Þò‰Fóˆ ¶õ‚°èœ.
èœ
âõ¼«ñ Þî¬ù âF˜ð£˜‚èM™¬ô.
î¬ô¬ñ ºè£ºì¡ õ£ªù£Lˆ ªî£ì˜¹
Þ¬ìòø£ñ™ Þ¼‰¶‹,
Þ¼†®œ òñQ¡
Þ¼Š¬ð eø
å¡Á«ñ Þòô£¶ «ð£J¼‚è «õ‡´‹.
Ü´ˆî 裬ô
â‰îˆ ªî¼M½‹ êùƒèœ Þ™¬ô;
è¬ìèœ Þ™¬ô.
ܘˆî‹ ªîKò£ñ™ æ˜ Ü¬ñF
â¡ù «îê‹ Þ¶?
ÞŠ«ð£ªî™ô£‹
Þó¾ I辋 ªè£Çó‹ I‚è¶.
Gôªõ£O ð올èJ™
Gö™èœ ܬêõ¶‹
ªðò˜ ªîKò£î ðø¬õèœ
F¯ªóù ÜôÁõ¶‹
ðè™ õ¼‹õ¬óJ™ ïóè‹î£¡.
...
ÜŠ¹ø‹,
àìù®ò£è ñ£Ÿø‹ «è†ì
âñ¶ HK¾ «ïŸÁˆ ªî¼M™
ÞøƒAŸÁ
âˆî¬ù «ð¬ó„ ²†´ˆ b˜ˆî¶
â¡ø Mðó‹ êKò£èˆ ªîKò£¶.
ä‹ð¶ Ü™ô¶ ÜÁð¶ â¡Á
«ñü˜ G¬ù‚Aø£˜.
6
Ü¡«ð ï‰î£
å¼ õNò£è â™ô£‹ º®‰î¶
÷ âù‚° Þìñ£Ÿø‹
èì¾À‚° ï¡P.
Þ¡Á è¬ìCˆ îì¬õò£è
ï輂°„ ªê¡«ø¡
ÜŠð® å¡Á‹ ðòƒèóñ£èˆ
ªîKòM™¬ô.
º¡¹ «ð£ô«õ è¬ìèœ, ªî¼‚èœ
Ýù£™, ñQî˜èœî£¡
º¡¹ «ð£ô¾‹
⋬ñŠ 𣘊ð«îJ™¬ô.
LETTERS FROM AN ARMY CAMP [1983]
(ó£µõ ºè£IL¼‰¶ è®îƒèœ)
<
br /> 1
Dearest Nanda,
Arrived just this morning,
with no problems at all.
Couldn’t sleep
for clutching the rifle
tightly on my lap.
Frightful nightmare;
woke up with a start.
At the station
when you and your mother wept
I was scared, too.
But, just as everyone reassured me,
the north
doesn’t seem so frightening, after all.
Just the same shops, streets,
traffic-jams as elsewhere.
Only, the people never look at us.
Even if our eyes meet by chance,
there’s something odd
in that stare –
an emotion I can’t place.
Can’t make it out.
You know, don’t you,
it isn’t possible
for us to travel singly.
We are a battalion of about fifty
in two armoured tanks,
two – or maybe three – jeeps
and a truck, besides.
Actually, it’s like a parade,
just like the one you saw
on Independence Day.
There’s one difference, though –
at the Independence Day parade