TRICKSTER - Translation of 'Maayavi' ಮಾಯಾವಿ

Trickster

from Avadha (1986)

 

One day in Afzalgunj

a man named Albuquerque

while returning from his office

vanished all of a sudden,

like the rising smoke vanishing from the roof,

like the rising heat evaporating from the earth.

(like in the movies, but this was real.)

 

Whither went this Albuquerque,

this quintessential clerk?

What happened to him,

who was full of vigour and vim?

A son,

a daughter,

an ideal wife,

he was a happy family man!

A tamarind tree on that side

A lake on this side.

Once you get into the train

only at Solapur can you detrain.

 

Only one man knows everything,

a baba named Moinuddin.

His beard itself three-feet long.

His eyes,

nobody has seen their depths.

A great man engulfed in silence –

A wise man who speaks only once

every year.

Yeah, he is there inside a cave in Golconda

beyond our sights.

 §

ARRIVING IN HYDERABAD - Translation of 'Hyderabadige' ಹೈದರಾಬಾದಿಗೆ

 Arriving in Hyderabad

 from Avadha (1986)

And then we arrived in Hyderabad.

It was already blazing hot in the afternoon.

To spew out hot steam at night

boulders burned red-hot through the day.

Only under these boulders, a little bit of shade.

 

The crow on the clock-tower

posed a riddle:

          a sea without water

          a boat without sails

                   where will they end up

                   those who sail from here?

 

The fellow on the bicycle

banged his bell,

‘Don’t you have nights for your dreams,’ he snapped.

We hadn’t slept the night before.

 

The wail that was heard from Salar Jung Museum,

was it the wail of a yakshi, or of a ghost, or

was it the wail of a lonely frightened wooden statue, or

was it the rhythm inside the hearts of the listeners?

 

We don’t believe any of these.

We will continue to do our work

as if nothing had happened.

The crow on the clock-tower?

Nobody has ever seen it since then.

§

PENTAYYA'S SHIRT - Translation of 'Pentayyana Angi' ಪೆಂಟಯ್ಯನ ಅಂಗಿ

Pentayya’s Shirt

 from Mukhamukhi (1978)

Coal-seller Pentayya had

just one shirt. 

When he delivered coal to houses,

when he slept at night,

when he went to the market –

it was in this same shirt.

 

It looked like it had been dipped in

the sludge of the Musi river.

Upset because of this, Pentayya

saved every paisa, and purchased

after many a day, as he longed for,

a spanking new shirt.  A movie

he’d wanted to watch long ago, Adavi Ramudu,

he’d go this evening, he thought – forgetting

that the policeman’s house urgently needed coal.

 

A crisp white shirt.  It might crack

if touched, its creases might fade

if worn – he feared,

as he put it on and set out.

 

He so walked past the coal shop as if he

had nothing to do with it.  Just as he

was beginning to feel victorious,

who should he come up against,

who else, but the policeman!

 

From that day onwards … why that day,

from that moment onwards, Pentayya’s

white shirt was never

white anymore.

 §

A BANYAN TREE - Translation of 'Ondu Aaladamara' ಒಂದು ಆಲದಮರ

A Banyan Tree

from Mukhamukhi (1978)

(A Banyan Tree doesn't come under Hyderabad Poems as such; I translated it for some other reason and thought I'd post it here anyway)

1

Look at this banyan tree: No children have

played under it.  Its leaves haven’t chimed in the passing breeze.

No one has hung themselves on its branches.

When I say these, are you surprised?

Election posters would be stuck on the trunk

of this boring tree.  Women labourers on their way to work through this path

would go behind for cover and urinate.  Once, some young boys

tried to carve some random names on it.

 

2

Observe this banyan tree: if I say that its bark is

like the wrinkled skin of an old man, it would be

saying nothing – because, to say the truth, it has

petrified.  And if I say that its roots are hanging like

arms without fingers, it wouldn’t be a colourful

description of this banyan tree.  Because, it brings to mind

outstretched arms of beggars on the streets of this town,

irrespective of Saturdays and Sundays.

 

3

When we make comparisons like these, since in some contexts

the tree alludes to the human and the human to the tree,

let’s not compare.

 *****

SEETAPHAL MANDI - Translation of 'Seetaphal Mandi' ಸೀತಾಫಲ್ ಮಂಡಿ

Seetaphal Mandi

from Avadha (1986)

 

When the sun starts to set earlier,

when the breeze starts to blow cooler,

it means

the carts would have started trundling

into

Seetaphal Mandi.

 

They arrive at the crack of dawn,

behind the veil of the first light,

from somewhere … who knows

from where …

while we are still groggy with sleep.

 

When I wake up … the lane across

is lined up with carts.

Seetadevi’s fruit of kindness

the season of Seetaphal,

Seeta’s fruit.

 

November comes … December comes …

winter comes … winter goes –

and all of a sudden

Seetaphal Mandi too is bare,

no carts

no oxen

only Seetaphal husks,

nothing else.

 

Seetaphal can be seen only next year now. 

Till then, we humans have to wait.

Doesn’t the tree in the jungle wait,

so far away from

Seetaphal Mandi?

§

SNOWMAN - Translation of 'Hima Manava' ಹಿಮ ಮಾನವ

 Snowman

from Avadha (1986)

No water, no shade.

Can’t step outside.

During one such blazing summer,

from the Himalayas, a snowman

came to Hyderabad and sat

atop a large boulder.

 

What an extraordinary thing!

The weather cooled down all of a sudden.

Where the grass was charred,

where the earth was cracked,

arose springs of water.

Ponds and lakes were filled,

roads were soaked.

 

Aah, now it will be better,

people heaved a sigh of relief.

 

But here, the snowman,

sitting with a straight gaze,

continued to melt.

First,

his hands and legs melted.

Next,

his eyes melted,

his head melted,

his stomach melted.

 

His penis melted.

Finally, only a piece of ice remained.

After a while, that too melted.

Only the boulder remained

unmelted at Khairatabad.

Will another snowman come

next summer

or won’t he?

Oh Kavi, only you can say!

§

FROM INSIDE SALAR JUNG MUSEUM - Translation of 'Salar Jung Museumninda' ಸಾಲಾರ್ ಜಂಗ್ ಮ್ಯೂಸಿಯಂನಿಂದ

From inside Salar Jung Museum

from Mukhamukhi (1978)

For our ancestors, things were not just objects,

they were things.                                

 

For example, the mirror was not just something

to see one’s face in.

It needed a large frame.  A number of creepers on the frame. 

Lots of flowers on the creepers.

We only need the mirror – the frame is only to hold it.

 

Similarly, god.  A temple for god.

A tower for the temple, idols, anklets for the feet,

bells for the anklets – not for making sound.

We too need god - and for that, a temple.

§

FROM THE BANKS OF OSMAN SAGAR - Translation of 'Osman Saagarada Dandeyinda' ಉಸ್ಮಾನ್ ಸಾಗರದ ದಂಡೆಯಿಂದ

From the banks of Osman Sagar

from Avadha (1986)

With such fierce focus, O young man,

what are you looking at? 

The proverbial footsteps of the fish or

the mysterious inner pathways of the

girl you are in love with?

 

What form would the broken images take

floating in from the stirrings of the restless lake.

Just like you

I’m waiting too

with bated breath.

 

But,

when the waves rest

and things are clear,

would we have forgotten

who we are?

§

IMAGE - Translation of 'Prathime' ಪ್ರತಿಮೆ

 This poem, IMAGE, is a translation of ‘Prathime’ from Avadha (1986)

 IMAGE

 He came to the spot where

four roads met

and wept – and

kept on weeping. 

Cars, buses,

heavy tarpaulin-covered trucks,

drove on nonstop.

The slow bullock carts too

kept on moving.

 

The sleeping city would wake up and

again go back to sleep in its

unperturbed lethargy,

amidst large garbage bins,

pigs in heat, and

trains that arrive from somewhere and depart.

 

Those sitting in the toddy shop,

women who had come to buy vegetables,

labourers waiting for work,

– none of them noticed.

 

Till mushrooms sprouted all around,

Till lilies grew;

The rain that came in unnoticed,

The breeze that sailed in over someone’s sigh,

The cold winter nights

– none of these touched him.

 

Nobody noticed when

he stood up all of a sudden;

he gathered himself,

he looked around,

started to say something,

stopped, as if wondering why should he,

and a smile that broke out hesitantly

like the secret sin in each one of us.

§