In a Time of Burning

by Cheran

  just for today.

  Will there be a time, soon,

  when each truth that bursts out of our mouths

  is rewarded by a bullet?

  If not, then why this tragedy?

  Beneath the mango tree, where three streets meet,

  the bodies lie burning;

  the flames rising

  blacken the unfurled palm leaves above.

  Smoke,

  fear, cruelty,

  sorrow, terror.

  Everything is black;

  the colour of demons

  when dark shadows

  and hostile omens

  envelop

  the bodies and the hearts

  which lie there, burning

  at this time.

  Even the birds have lost their song,

  their voices suppressed.

  Children forget to scream,

  their shocked eyelids frozen.

  The wind carries away

  the ashes,

  the dogs carry away

  the bones.

  They frog-march humanity

  at gun point,

  shoot it dead at the grave’s edge

  and shovel the earth over it

  with their feet.

  The walls along the streets

  drip with blood

  as they justify themselves.

  Justification!

  Who asked you for justification?

  I know

  each blade of grass,

  each small shoot

  and the tiniest weed

  blossoms,

  grows, matures and dies

  because of the life-breath of hope.

  But now, at this moment,

  when the aged call out in their grief

  that this, our land, is cursed –

  at this moment

  when bodies and hearts are burning –

  at this moment

  how can I speak of hope?

  Among these graves,

  among these corpses,

  between the bloodstained clothes,

  among grief-stricken mothers

  weeping for their dead sons

  I wander,

  with my wasting body

  and unshaven face,

  a heavy heart and confused mind,

  searching for false words

  of false comfort.

  ó£TQ

  (RAJANI)

  Þ¡‹ ªè£…ê «ïóˆF™

  ÅKò¡ ñ¬ø‰¶M´õ£¡

  Þ¼œ èM‰¶M´‹

  ÞQ õóŠ «ð£Aø Þ¼œ

  º¡¹ «ð£ô Ü™ô

  Hꣲ

  Gô£¬õ‚ ªè£¬ô ªêŒ¶

  ªõœOè¬÷Š «ð£†ªìKˆî

  ꣋ð™ ÌCò Þó¾

  Þ‰î Þ󾂰 º¡

  å¼ CÁ ¬èM÷‚¬è

  Ü™ô¶ å¼ ªñ¿° FK¬ò

  ãŸP Mì«õ‡´‹ â¡Á

  M¬ó‰î£Œ

  Ü‹ñ£,

  «õè‹ Üõ˜‚èFè‹ Þ¡Á

  ªî¡ F¬ê G¡Á õ‰îù˜.

  òñQ¡ Éî˜èœ;

  ¬èˆ¶Šð£‚A;

  䉶 °‡´èœ

  c M¿‰î «ð£¶

  ÅKòQ¡ è¬ìC‚ Aóíƒèœ

  ²õK™ M¿ˆFò

  à¡ Gö™

  ¬èè¬÷ iC «ñ«ô æƒAŸÁ.

  º®ML õ¬ó.

  RAJANI [1989]

  (ó£TQ)

  Now, in a little while

  the sun will set,

  darkness will fall.

  The darkness that is yet to come

  will not be as before

  but the very devil –

  a night that has murdered the moon

  and set fire to the stars;

  an ash-smeared night.

  You hurried on your way

  hoping to light a small hand-lamp,

  or at least a candle,

  before such a night could fall.

  Amma,

  today they were in great haste

  arriving from the south –

  Death’s messengers

  with their rifles

  and their five bullets.

  As you fell

  the sun’s last rays

  threw upon the wall

  your shadow:

  your waving hands rising

  higher

  and higher

  beyond the horizon.

  °ö‰¬îèœ

  (CHILDREN)

  °ö‰¬îè¬÷ ò£˜ à¼õ£‚°Aø£˜èœ

  â¡Á  «è†«ì¡

  Fø‰¶ ¬õˆî ò¡ùÖì£è„ êôêôˆ¶

  ï£ù™ô; Üõ˜èO¡ °ó½‚°„

  êƒWî ïó‹¹è¬÷ˆ î¼õ«î â¡ «õ¬ô

  â¡ø¶ 裟Á

  Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò è‡èÀ‚°

  Ýöñ£ù Gøƒè¬÷ˆ î¼A«ø¡ 

  â¡ø¶ åO

  Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò H…²Š ð£îƒèÀ‚°

  å¼ ¹¡ù¬è¬òˆ î¼A«ø¡ 

  â¡ø¶ ªêšõôKŠÌ

  Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò ÞîòˆF¡ ²õ˜è¬÷‚

  è£îL¡ Þ¬öè÷£™ ªïŒA«ø¡

  â¡ø¶ èì™

  Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò CKŠ¹‚°

  ñ‰Fó õL¬ñ¬ò„ «ê˜‚A«ø¡

  â¡øù 裴èœ

  ÜŠð®ò£ù£™

  Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò ¬èèO™ ¶Šð£‚Aè¬÷»‹

  裙èÀ‚° ó£µõ„ êŠð£ˆ¶‚è¬÷»‹

  Þ´ŠH™ ªõ®°‡´è¬÷»‹

  è‡èO™ ªõÁŠ¬ð»‹

  î‰î¶ ò£˜ â¡Á «è†«ì¡

  裟Á‹ è콋 à¬ø‰îù;

  ªõOJ™

  àô˜‰¶ ªï£¼ƒAŸÁ

  è‡í£®ˆ ¶‡´è÷£è åO.

  å¼ I¡ù™ ªõ†®™

  âKò Ýó‹Hˆîù Ì‚èÀ‹ 裴èÀ‹

  â™ô£Š ðø¬õèÀ‹

  Æìñ£èŠ ðø‰¶ ªê¡Á

  ܈b»œ M¿‰îù.

  °ö‰¬îèœ

  âƒèÀ¬ìò °ö‰¬îèœ.

  CHILDREN [1994]

  (°ö‰¬îèœ)

  Who creates children,

  I asked.

  Rustling in through the open window,

  Wind said,

  Not I

  I only give strong nerves of music

  to their voices.

  I give deep colours

  to their eyes,

  said Light.

  I touch their tender feet

  with a smile

  said the Red Oleander.

  I weave the walls of their hearts

  with love’s threads,

  said Sea.

  I add magic strength

  to their laughter,

  said Forest.

  If that is true

  who put guns in their hands

  army boots on their feet

  grenades at their waist

  and hatred in their eyes,

  I asked.

  Wind and Sea froze;

  Light withered,

  shattering away

  like splinters of glass.

  In a single flash of lightning

  Flowers and Forest were in flames

  and all the birds, in a great flock,

  flew into that fire.

  Children,

  our children.

  áN

  (APOCALYPSE)

  âƒèÀ¬ìò è£ôˆF™î£¡

  áN G蛉î¶.

  ÝM‚ ÈF™ Gô‹ ï´ƒAŠ

  «ðŒ ñ¬öJ™ àì™ H÷‰¶

  àœÀ‹ ªõO»‹ b Í÷

  Þ¼O¡ Üôø™.

  °ö‰¬îè¬÷, ñQî˜è¬÷

  ªõœ÷‹ Þ¿ˆ¶ õ‰¶

  bJ™ âPAø¶.

  Üè£ôˆF™ ªè£¬ô»‡«ì£‹

  ÅöõóŠ 𣘈¶ G¡øõ˜èO¡

  Gó£îó
M¡e¶

  å¼ àJóŸø è¬ì‚è‡ i„¬ê

  âP‰¶M†´

  ¹¬è‰¶ ¹¬è‰¶ ºAô£è

  «ñŸ A÷‹H«ù£‹

  è£çŠè£¾‚°ˆî£¡ ìò ⿈¶‚è¬÷ˆ

  bJLì õ£Œ‚èM™¬ô

  Ýù£™ CõóñE âKˆ¶ M†ì£œ

  ܉îó ªõOJ™ èM¬î ÜNAø¶

  ñŸøõ˜èÀ¬ìò ¹¬ù¾èœ

  àJ˜ ªðø ñÁ‚A¡øù.

  ♫ô£¼‹ «ð£Œ M†«ì£‹

  è¬î ªê£™ô ò£¼‹ Þ™¬ô

  ÞŠªð£¿¶ Þ¼‚Aø¶

  è£ò‹ð†ì å¼ ªð¼Gô‹

  Ü «ñô£èŠ ðø‰¶ ªê™ô

  â‰îŠ ðø¬õò£½‹ º®òM™¬ô

  ï£ƒèœ F¼‹H õ¼‹ õ¬ó.

  APOCALYPSE [1999]

  (áN)

  In our own time we have seen

  the Apocalypse. The earth

  trembled to the dance of the dead;

  bodies burst apart in the wild storm;

  darkness screamed as everything caught fire

  inside and out.

  The last flood dragged out children and men

  and threw them on the flames.

  We died in an untimely hour.

  Glancing sidelong with our dying eyes

  at the helplessness

  of those who surrounded us, watching,

  we smouldered and smouldered

  then rose up in a smoke cloud.

  Kafka was denied the chance

  to set fire to his works.

  But Sivaramani burnt hers.

  Poetry is destroyed in mid-air.

  What others write now

  refuses to live.

  We have all gone away;

  there is no one to tell our story.

  Now there is only left

  a great land, wounded.

  No bird may fly above it

  until our return.

  [Uuzhi, 1999]

  ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶

  (SUNSET)

  ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶

  õò™ ªõO‚° ÜŠð£™

  ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶

  裆®¡ GöL«ô

  ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶

  Þ¡‹ ªð£Nò£î ñ¬öJ¡

  «è£ðˆ¶‚°Š H¡ù£™,

  ñ‡E™ ¹ó‡®¼‚°‹ ËŸÁ‚ èí‚è£ù

  àì™èO¡ «ñ™,

  è¬óJ™ 嶃Aò ¶‡®‚èŠð†ì

  å¼ è£L¡ e¶.

  ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶

  ÞöŠ¬ð»‹ ¶òóˆ¬î»‹

  ⃰ °MŠð¶ â¡Á ªîKò£ñ™

  «è£÷ ܬø‚°œ ð¶ƒè å¼

  ͬô¬òˆ «î®ˆ ¶®ˆî CÁ ðø¬õJ¡

  安î Þø‚¬èèœ e¶

  âù¶ è‡a¼‚°œ ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶

  裬ôJ™

  îòƒAˆ îòƒA õ‰¶ ªê£™Aø£˜èœ:

  àì™ A¬ì‚èM™¬ô.

  SUNSET [1999]

  (ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶)

  The sun has set

  across the spreading fields

  the sun has set

  in the shadow of the woods

  the sun has set

  beyond the anger of the rain

  which is yet to fall

  upon the hundreds of bodies

  sprawled upon the sand

  upon a severed leg

  alone upon the sea-shore

  the sun has set.

  Upon the broken wings

  of a quivering small bird

  which does not know

  where to heap its loss and sorrow

  and searches for a corner

  in a small cage

  where it can lurk;

  within my tears the sun has set.

  At dawn they arrive

  with faltering words:

  The body has not been found.

  «èœ

  (ASK)

  «èœ

  âŠð®Š ¹í˜õ¶ â¡ð¬îŠ

  𣋹èOì‹. âŠð®Š ¹ô˜õ¶ â¡ð¬î‚

  裬ôJì‹. ªð£Á¬ñ â¡ð¶ â¡ù

  â¡ð¬î ñóƒèOì‹. èù¾èÀ‚°

  õ‡íƒèœ à‡ì£ â¡ð¬îˆ É‚èˆF™

  ïìŠðõ˜èOì‹. è‡a˜ˆ¶Oèœ C¬ø‚Ãìƒè÷£è

  ñ£Pò¶ âŠð® â¡ð¬î

  ÜèFèOì‹. ðò‹ â¡ð¶ â¡ù â¡ð¬î

  ï´ ÞóM™ Þ‰î ïèK™ ïì‚è «ï˜Aø

  èÁŠ¹ˆ «î£™ ñQî˜èO캋

  ªð‡èO캋. «ñ£è‹ ºŠð¶ èœî£ù£

  â¡ð¬î Í‚°ˆF ÜE‰î è£îô˜èOì‹.

  º¿GôM™ ð£ôˆF¡W› à¬ø‰î ð£ŸèìL¡

  𣴋 e¡èœ âƒ«è «ð£ŒM†ìù

  â¡ð¬î‚ 裘è£ôˆFì‹. ªñ£NJ¡

  îQ¬ñJL¼‰¶ HøŠð¶ â¡ù â¡ð¬îˆ

  F¬ê ªî£¬ôòŠ ¹ô‹ªðò˜‰îõ˜èOì‹.

  ¶òóˆF¡ ê£Á HN‰î îQ¬ñ âŠð®J¼‚°‹

  â¡ð¬î â¡ ðQŠð£¬ø»œ ªï¼ŠH¡

  àJ˜„ ²õ†¬ì âP‰îõOì‹, ÜõOì‹

  ÞõOì‹. ÞóM¡ è¬ìC óJ½‹ «ð£ŒM†ì

  HŸð£´, î‡ìõ£÷ƒèÀ‹ °OK™ ¶®ˆ¶Š

  H÷‚è 埬ø„ Cø°ì¡ ¬èJ™ 埬øŠ

  Ì¾ì¡ è£ˆF¼Šð¶ âŠð® â¡ð¬î

  â¡Qì‹

  «èœ.

  ASK [1995]

  («èœ)

  Ask

  snakes, how to copulate. The morning,

  how to dawn. Trees, the meaning

  of patience. Ask sleep-walkers what colour

  dreams are. Refugees, how their tears

  became their prison cells. Women and Blacks

  who must walk the streets of this town

  at night, what fear is. Lovers who wear nose-studs

  whether lust lasts for only thirty days.

  The monsoon, where the fish have all disappeared,

  fish which once sang in the still milk-ocean

  beneath the bridge, on full-moon nights.

  Ask a lost diaspora, what is born

  out of the loneliness of language. Ask her, who flung

  a living ember of fire upon the ice-cliffs of my life,

  about the quintessential loneliness of grief.

  Ask her. And her.

  Ask

  me,

  when the last train of the evening has gone

  and the railway lines shiver and break in the cold,

  what it is to wait with a single wing

  and a single flower.

  Gø‹

  (COLOUR)

  ðQ ð옉¶ àô˜‰î ð£¬îJ™ ⊫𣶋 «ð£ô

  ñƒAò åO  ªî¼M÷‚A¡ W› °OK™

  M¬øˆ¶„ Cõ‰î Í‚° ¸Q»‹ AN‰¶ ¶õ¿‹

  «ñ™ «ñô£¬ì»‹ Üî¡ «ñ™ ÜCóˆ¬î»ì¡ å†ìŠ

  ð†®¼‰î å¼ CÁ èù®òˆ «îCò‚ ªè£®»‹ Ü옉î

  c‡ì 𿊹ˆ J™ ËŸø£‡´è÷£Œ„ «ê˜‰î

  Ü¿‚°‹ è¬ø»‹ à¬ø‰î Hò˜ ¸¬óJ¡ 𮾋

  î¬ôJ™ ñ¬ö ðQ ¹ò™ ªõJ™ â™ô£õŸP½‹

  Ü®ð†´ˆ «î£Ÿø‹ C¬î‰î 裆´Šð„¬ê Þó£µõˆ

  ªî£ŠH»‹

  Ãù™ º¶°‹ õ¬÷‰î ïèƒèÀ‹ c‡´ ªïO‰¶

  C‚°‡ì ñJ¼‹ âù„ ²¼‡´ A쉶 ð£F Þ¼À‹

  ð£F ªõP»ñ£Œ Ü®‚è® Fø‰¶ Í´‹ cô‚

  è‡èÀì¡ è£™ ðí‹ «è†´ ÞóŠðõ¡ C™ô¬ø

  âPðõ˜‚° ï¡P â¡Aø£¡

  âPò ñÁˆ«î¡

  ‘Fuck you, Paki,’

  â¡Á ºèˆ¬îˆ F¼ŠHù£¡.

  COLOUR [2003]

  (Gø‹)

  In the street, dry now after a
fall of snow,

  beneath the street-lamp with its dim light,

  the tip of his nose frozen and red,

  a small Canadian flag pinned carelessly

  upon his ragged, drooping overcoat,

  centuries of dirt and stains and beer-froth

  on his long, dense brown beard,

  a forest-green army cap on his head

  now shapeless,

  buffeted by snow, wind and rain,

  with hunched back, crooked nails and

  long, curly, tangled hair, he lies huddled,

  his blue eyes blinking frequently,

  part sunken in darkness

  part crazed. He begs for money

  and thanks those who fling him coins.

  I refused.

  ‘Fuck you, Paki,’ he said

  turning his face away.

  ïœOó¾Š Ì¬ê