In a Time of Burning

by Cheran

instead of seeds; a place

  half full of two-storey houses,

  half full of terrorists.

  As we sat side by side

  on the steps leading down

  to the milky stretch of water

  covered in glinting fine threads,

  shreds of the moon’s curtain –

  water that changed colour when its

  muddy depths were stirred

  and changed again with the shadows

  of passing clouds –

  my heart melted

  when you sang a Sinhala song

  in your sweet voice.

  Once long ago –

  I was a small boy then –

  waiting at the Maho station

  for the Batticaloa train,

  I walked with my father for a while,

  some distance along the railway lines.

  Midnight.

  The quiet sound of a lullaby

  murmured through the wind.

  The shock of that gentle sound

  intercepting the baby’s cries

  struck my heart that night

  with sudden sadness.

  Today too

  I am enveloped by

  a fine grief.

  Did our different languages, after all,

  put such distance between us

  that we could not smile together,

  nor savour

  the beauty of falling ponnocchi flowers

  blown down by the tumultuous Aadi winds,

  nor those sudden moments of hesitation

  when the long-tailed peacock

  stopped and turned around in its stately walk?

  I could not pluck for you

  the single peacock feather you desired

  nor, in the early hours of the night,

  accompany you, as you wished,

  across the moonlit grass.

  Your eyes could not hide

  these small disappointments,

  nor can I

  forget your gentle affection.

  We went our ways without maiming Nature,

  leaving the flowers to blossom

  and the grass to flourish

  you to the south

  and I to the north.

  At daybreak, when

  the cool breeze climbs down

  from the huge trees

  along the mountain ranges,

  as you take your walk

  brushing your teeth,

  you will remember the days

  when we worked together

  excavating an ancient city at Maanthai,

  and our brief friendship.

  Tell your people

  here, too, flowers bloom,

  grass grows,

  birds fly.

  Ü‹ñ£ Üö£«î

  (AMMA, DON’T WEEP)

  Ü‹ñ£ Üö£«î

  ïñ¶ ¶ò¬ó„ ²ñ‚è ñ¬ôèœ Þ™¬ô

  àù¶ è‡a˜ è¬óò¾‹

  ÝÁèœ Þ™¬ô.

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  à¡Qì‹ î‰î¶‹

  ªõ®ˆî¶ ¶õ‚°.

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  °¼F ð®‰î¶.

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  à¡ õ‡í‚èù¾èœ àô˜‰îù.

  G¡ 裟Cô‹H¬ì Þ¼‰¶ ªîPˆî¶

  ºˆ¶‚èœ Ü™ô,

  ñEèÀ‹ Ü™ô

  °¼F â¡ð¬î àí˜Aø 𣇮ò¡

  Þƒ° Þ™¬ô.

  ¶Jô£ Þó¾èO™

  ‘܊𣒠â¡Á ÜôPˆ ¶®‚Aø

  C¡ù ñö¬ô‚°

  â¡ù ªê£™õ£Œ?

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  ñ£˜H™ A

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  °¼F ð®‰î è¬î¬ò„ ªê£™

  ªè£´¬ñèœ ÜNòŠ

  «ð£Kì„ ªê£™.

  AMMA, DON’T WEEP [1985]

  (Ü‹ñ£ Üö£«î)

  Amma, don’t weep.

  There are no mountains to shoulder your sorrow,

  there are no rivers

  to dissolve your tears.

  The instant he handed you

  the baby from his shoulder,

  the gun fired.

  Blood spread on your tali

  lying there in the dust.

  In the heat of the splintering shell

  all your bright dreams withered.

  Spurting from your anklet

  were neither pearls

  nor rubies:

  there is no longer a Pandyan king

  to recognize blood-guilt.

  On sleepless nights

  when your little boy stirs restlessly

  screaming out, “Appa,”

  what will you say?

  When you pace the night, showing him the moon

  and soothing him against your breast,

  don’t say,

  “Appa is with God.”

  Tell him this sorrow continues,

  tell him the story of the spreading blood,

  tell him to wage war

  to end these cruelties.

  ♫ô£¬ó»‹ «ð£™ Ü‰î «ïóˆF™ c ÜöM™¬ô

  (YOU DIDN’T WEEP THAT DAY)

  º¡ñ£¬ô

  ªè£…ê«ïó‹ ªõJ™ Þ¼‰î¶

  Hø° Þ™¬ô

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  Mó™èÀ‹ «ðê ñø‰îù

  ° õ¼ìƒèœ

  Þ¡Á HK»º¡

  ♫ô£¬ó»‹ «ð£ô Ü‰î «ïóˆF™ c ÜöM™¬ô

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  è„꣌ ªï´ ªõOJ¡ ï´M™

  îQˆF¼‚°‹ 埬øŠ ð¬ù.

  YOU DIDN’T WEEP THAT DAY [1985]

  (♫ô£¬ó»‹ «ð£™ Ü‰î «ïóˆF™ c ÜöM™¬ô)

  Early evening.

  The s
un shone for a while,

  then died away.

  We sat at the entrance of the airport

  waiting for the others.

  A sudden drizzle beat against us,

  then went its way.

  You withdrew your hold

  of the manivaazhai tree

  whose leaves throbbed like heart-beats

  as the breeze came and went

  and put your hands in mine.

  Even your fingers had forgotten to speak.

  Four years ago, today.

  You didn’t cry like the others

  when we parted,

  and I knew you would not.

  Nor did you speak any words

  appropriate to a farewell.

  There was no possibility

  of our kissing each other,

  you could not bury your face in my chest

  nor lay your head on my shoulder.

  You took away the hand I held so tight,

  dropped a curtain of grief over me,

  walked away along the long veranda

  and vanished.

  Four years.

  Once, on a dewy morning

  walking along the jasmine-strewn street

  I stopped short, hearing you cough:

  that memory will last to eternity

  like the parallel lines

  of our lives.

  If I lived at all, it was in those moments:

  when the thin clouds spread gradually

  into the evening’s redness

  and I lay on the sand, my head in your lap,

  the hair curling about your earlobes,

  a trace of sadness in your eyes,

  your body yielding, your voice calling,

  your eyelids closing,

  your trembling hands tightening

  about my shoulders.

  In those perfect moments.

  But now I stand in the cold

  in the middle of a long landscape:

  a lone palmyra tree.

  21 «ñ 1986

  (21 MAY 1986)

  ï´ ÞóM™ i´ âKAø¶

  c 𣘈¶‚ ªè£‡®¼‚°‹ «ð£«î

  àù¶ ñ¬ùM¬ò‚

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  裟P™ Þ¼‰¶ ªè£‡«ìJ¼‚Aø¶.

  21 MAY 1986 [1986]

  (21 «ñ 1986)

  At midnight your house is aflame.

  In front of your eyes

  they stab your wife.

  Air Force planes dip to the earth

  and rise again.

  Bombs fall, glinting,

  catching the sunlight.

  In all directions,

  children scream.

  My grandmother continues to grumble

  about her reading glasses which fell and broke

  as she rushed for the bunker.

  The director of the blood-bank

  informs us, very kindly,

  there is no blood left.

  I search for a friend

  who is looking for another, lost

  in an entirely friendly skirmish.

  A few folk, discussing whether

  this is a democratic revolution

  or a socialist one, are demolished

  by cannon fire.

  Having survived two air attacks

  and twenty helicopter gunships

  I break my ankle, tangling

  with a small dog.

  As I lie in bed, an ‘intellectual’ friend

  brings me Zen and the Art

  of Motorcycle Maintenance.

  The man trying to fix

  the Red Cross sign on the roof

  of the hospital, falls;

  picked off by a helicopter.

  All the same,

  crows are left, and so is paper.

  Also

  the sound of the machine gun

  now, as always,

  remains in the air.

  âK‰¶ªè£‡®¼‚°‹ «ïó‹

  (IN A TIME OF BURNING)

  Þ¡Á õ£ŒFøõ£«î

  ªñ÷ù‹ ªè£œ

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  ¶˜‚°Pèœ MóM

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  àì™èÀ‹ ñùº‹

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  Üôø ñø‰îù˜ CÁõ˜.

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  .

  IN A TIME OF BURNING [1986]

  (âK‰¶ªè£‡®¼‚°‹ «ïó‹)

  Don’t open your mouth today.

  Be silent