AT TARNAKA CROSSROADS - Translation of TARNAKADA CHOWKA ತಾರನಾಕದ ಚೌಕ

 At Tarnaka Crossroads

 (from Avadha 1986)

We cannot count stars

standing at Tarnaka Crossroads.

On one side we have

Moula Ali gutta;

On the other,

Yadagiri gutta.

To choose between these two,

is really difficult. 

 

Come in, sit down,

have a drink,

bite into mirchi bajjis,

resolve this dilemma

this, another, way,

calls out the toddy shop to us.

 

Here, it is darkness at noon.

Instead of stars

we have dim bulbs

twinkling weakly.

Easy to count.

 

But why tears

in your eyes?

Is it because of the fiery mirchi?  Or

is it because of our still

unexpressed final decision?

 §

SEA - Translation of SAMUDRA ಸಮುದ್ರ

Sea

 

I am the sea, I felt,

for Hyderabad has no sea,

and spread across

the length and breadth of this great city,

filling its streets,

filling its lanes;

in my desire to belong

lay its anxieties.

 

Alarmed,

it invites me with open arms,

parting its veil, it opens itself,

but, the disturbed mind,

encircled by temples and gopura-s and minars,

wouldn’t open itself.

 

 

I roamed, I laid siege,

I sowed clouds

at heights I couldn’t reach.

On shopfronts,

on masjid steps,

on unknown frontyards,

wherever I could

I carved my dreams.

Within, I withered.

 

In the darkening dusk

who picked up the shattered shells?

Who sobbed their sorrows in secret

so that nobody could hear?

Who erased all their marks

as they moved on?

The breeze has now cooled down

reviving memories of other seas

and other shocks.

It’s been ages,

I slept –

I have more to sleep

I have my own frontiers to embrace.

§ 

BHAGYANAGARA - Translation of 'BHAGYANAGARA' ಭಾಗ್ಯನಗರ

Bhagyanagara

(from Avadha 1986)

 

Standing at this intersection

I ask you

O’ Bhagyanagara, city of fortunes,

where is the gateway to your fortunes?

What do I see from this height –

people tiny as ants, trucks, buses,

bullock carts, sacks on heads –

someone’s game of toys,

everyone’s conversation akin to chaos.

 

Those names scratched on the walls,

how do we know whose names are those?

Written here as though etched in history.

Men and women, tourists, lovers,

having climbed up these steps one by one

on this circular staircase,

they stop at these windows,

open themselves to the breeze that comes

blowing over from

Musi – Golconda – Falaknuma,

and magically vanish like chimerical birds.

What did they leave behind?

What did they take away?

 

Paths marched on to reach cities;

Shadows of the minars fell and grew

assuming shapes of forts and citadels.

See there, a rampart!  Look, an army!

See there, the armoury!  Look, the palanquin from the queen’s palace!

Is that

the sound of the temple cymbals, or

the call for namaaz, or

the bugle of war?

One can see but can’t see, hear but can’t hear.

In this gloomy dusk, who is not with me,

apart from me, who else?  Aah!

 

Whose share of fortune is this!  O’ Bhagyamati,

Why are you still sitting here?

The dancing has ended,

the darbar has dispersed,

the sultan too has left for his palace,

the lights of the city are going out one by one,

darkness has shrouded the minars,

the moon hasn’t risen yet, but

like a silver star,

your nose-ring glitters.

O’ Bhagyamati, thou who art tired after dancing,

come and stand before me in my dreams,

shower the light of your love on this city

that bears your name.

§

ON THE ARTS COLLEGE ROAD - Translation of 'Arts Collegina haadiyalli' ಆರ್ಟ್ಸ್ ಕಾಲೇಜಿನ ಹಾದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ

On the Arts College road

(from Mukhamukhi 1978)

Gulmohar flowers are falling thickly here.

Stray fore-strands are swaying uninhibitedly in the cool breeze.  

The eyes, oh, the eyes of the young girls in veils

seem to be saying something.

 

The girl and the boy sitting under the tree are

laughing for no reason at all.

The paanwala near the bus-stop is speaking fluently

in chaste Dakhani Urdu.

This is the Arts College road where I

walk every day.

 

What, doesn’t the Hyderabad heat hammer down here?

Doesn’t anybody suffer here?

You might ask.

Why, don’t I have freedom to choose?

Or not?

§

CROSSING THE ROAD AT ABID'S - Translation of 'Abidsinalli raste daatuvudu' ಅಬೀಡ್ಸಿನಲ್ಲಿ ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟುವುದು

Crossing the road at Abid’s

(from Mukhamukhi 1978)

 

You want to go to Bulchand’s clothes shop now, right?

As someone who seeks variety, you have chosen the

right shop.  Now, we have to cross the road.

Wait for a while.  It’s always crowded here in the evenings.

Those vehicles coming in a line from the left,

let them pass.  They are coming in from the right too.

Crossing the road at Abid’s means you have to

hold your life in your pocket.  See, how the

windows of that double-decker slashed through

Bulchand’s lights!

 

But they are sparkling brightly again.

Bulchand’s lights are always like that.

 

Now! Rush across! Let’s cross the road between

this car and that scooter.  That snarl

you barely heard was the scooter fellow cursing.

That policeman’s whistle that you heard …

was actually the screech of the car’s brakes. 

So, after finally

crossing the road, how do you feel?

That you have slashed through this relentless road?

 

But see how soon they have become one again –

as if we had never crossed the road at all.

 

Abid’s roads are always like that.

 

§

RAMULU AND SOMULU - Translation of 'Ramuluvoo Somuluvoo' ರಾಮುಲುವೂ ಸೋಮುಲುವೂ

Ramulu and Somulu

 (from Mukhamukhi 1978)

- 1 -

 A desolate field.

The sun is already disappearing behind huge bitter-neem trees.

A little bit of twilight

has evenly fallen on powdery dry grass.

Shortly, from the left (or was it from the right…? )

Ramulu and Somulu enter

hesitantly, uncertainly.

Hands hanging by their shirts,

exposed legs under their dhoties,

turbans instead of heads – only this much from afar  – .

Just for a second they stand looking at each other’s faces,

then hurriedly

they scatter in different directions

searching for balls.

Thus, they continue, searching and picking balls up, and

after quite some time

meet at the pitch,

then pick up the wickets,

hug them to their chests, and

depart taking long strides.

 

- 2 -

 

The mist is already spreading on the ground like a thin veil.

A few stars are sprinkled across the sky.

It’s only the indolent donkeys that are standing still

oblivious.

Soon, Ramulu and Somulu

make their entry again.

Looking straight ahead, they run with heavy steps

towards the pitch.

One from the right, one from the left.

They decide to lift and roll up the coir mat.

As they roll it up, round and round,

the roll grows bigger.

They put their hands under the roll,

plant their feet firmly on the ground,

they push, they bend, and they fall.

One below, the other on top.

Not giving up, they get up, change grips,

and breathing hard, lift and pull and

drag it away, far .

 

- 3 -

 

What to say, the January nights have started getting frostier.

Where is the field, where are the trees, difficult to make out.

Shortly, Ramulu and Somulu

enter, hoisting heavy pots.

Disregarding their crumbling legs

they take quick short steps towards the pitch,

a beedi in each mouth

burning like twin stars.

Ramulu and Somulu

start sprinkling water on the

length of the field, as though lying tired after raising a dust storm.

Gradually, a thick darkness envelops everything.

Soon, one beedi snuffs out

then the other.

 §

HAVELI - Translation of 'Haveli' ಹವೇಲಿ

 Haveli

 from Mukhamukhi (1978)

- 1 -

In this haveli now nobody lives. 

Who it belongs to nobody knows.

The eyes of the old paanwala on the street outside

look like they have soaked up the history of this haveli.

But he’s unwilling to reveal anything. 

His hands that fold the betel leaves are always quivering.

 

- 2 -

Wild creepers have climbed up to the terrace.

Huge cobwebs have draped the windows.

These days we won’t be able to find masonry

like this anywhere, that has supported

all these rooms and concert halls.

See, how tall this mansion stands

amidst the towering bushes.

- 3 -

Since such places have a lot of shade

one can stand here and reminisce about

almost anything;

each one’s smiles,

each one’s capers.

Amidst all this,

a sound from somewhere inside

of clothes falling to the floor

could well be real.

 

But, I know about one thing surely;

When a stone is dropped into this deep well

it takes several minutes before you can hear the sound –

the time between these

is filled with anxiety.

§