Good for a Lifetime
Perhaps there was a bit of moisture there
or a pastel shade
Perhaps a shiver, perhaps hope
Perhaps there was just one teardrop there
or, as a keepsake,
a kiss
Perhaps there was snow there
or a small hand
or the attempt to touch
Perhaps there was darkness there
or an open field
or standing room
Perhaps there was a man there
struggling in his own way.
'Ek
Jivan ke liye'
Translated by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
City
I
looked at the city
and smiled
and walked in
who would ever want to live here
i wondered
and never went back.
'Shahr'
translated by Girdhar Rathi
Outside
I
closed the door
and sat down to write a poem
outside a breeze was blowing
there was a little light
a bicycle stood in the rain
a child was coming home
I
wrote a poem
which had no breeze no light
no bicycle no child
and
no door.
'Bahar'
translated from Hindi by the poet
The
Other Hand
After
all I've only got one hand
and how much can you do with it?
The other hand's almost useless
not much help
and I often forget
that there's still another hand
This
is the one with which I fetch
water for your kitchen
write a thank-you note
strap-hang on a bus
I swing it vigorously as I walk
so it stays active defiant
That's
when the other hand
crouches like a hare in a bush
or lies down in my childhood
somewhere between a ball and a rocking horse
In my youth it would clasp
the hand of a girl
but this swinging hand can't even
touch the other hand
It
keeps on knocking
at the gates of cities offices houses
It's with this I do everything
It never gets tired never gives up
only when it's too much
the other hand protests
aching and trembling.
'Dusra
Hath'
translated from Hindi by Girdhar Rathi
The
Death of Leaves
The leaves that settle on my face
Fall from my childhood's trees.
A lake sends me its waves, and,
Like a wave, the night quivers. I walk
On it, the death of leaves on my face.
The birds have made their sounds.
The place is empty. The lights
Are ash. The houses on either side
Of the road have locked front doors.
I call out, and my voice rebounds.
'Patton
ki mrtyu'
translated from Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
The
Way Home
I
tried several times
to raise my hand above this flood
Several times I had hopes
At times I saw this was the end
I'd
only wanted to say
one or two ordinary words
that could be depended on
for the time being
that would be essential
at least for the moment
I'd
only wanted
to describe a picture
that would be almost true
for a while
that would hang there
after the faces and landscapes had faded
I
wanted to describe a mountain
one I tried to climb once
that sent down a shower of dirt and pebbles
Could it have been a mountain of hunger
I
wanted to give details
of a missing boy
who might be eating bread somewhere in anger
looking at his scars
cursing himself
saying I will go back home
I
did not want to apologize
for my despair
I did not want my simple desires
to show on my face
I did not ever want to forget
the way back home.
'Ghar ka
Rasta'
translated from Hindi byVishnu Khare and Christi Merrill
Daily
Grind
Citing
a few concrete instances
we say the day is done
Morning's a door to our soul
we knock at in a routine way
Get
up and get going
to earn your daily ration of despair
We know it had all been there for a long time
smoke blood and shrieking
Their shadow falls on our thoughts
we have not ventured far
from our thoughts
We
step onto the street
looking for poems and tales
we converse with folded hands
for we believe in such conversation
Briskly we pace in the room to and fro
and swear at newspapers
finally saying it's all too horrible
We
never thought there would be an abyss
even in humanity
we never thought the tyrant one day
would compare his face
with that of a human
Thinking we were not privy
to this misdeed to this madness
we watch society slip
day after day
into the nether world
We
have brought with us life
salvaged
though no more than a pinch of salt
our heads are still intact though dizzy
As we pass through the door of our soul
we reflect
on compassion succor magnanimity
'Dincharya'
translated from Hindi by Girdhar Rathi
The
Quiet House
The
sun by slow degrees heats up the walls
There's a fire smoldering somewhere near
There's a ball lying on the bed
the books, storehouses of disaster, are silent.
I'm
half awake, half asleep
Half asleep, half awake
Listening to sounds outside
No sobbing in them
No threats being made or fear expressed
Nobody praying, nobody
Asking for alms.
And
no bitterness in me
But space, empty, waiting to be filled
And easily inhabited
Nor do I feel helpless
But an aching spreads through my limbs
And I recall the house of my childhood
Its backyard, lying on my stomach
Basking in the sun.
I
ask nothing of the world
And can live as squirrels do
As grass does or a ball
That a small jolt will bring
This quiet house down
Doesn't worry me.
'Ghar shant hai'
translated from Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Poem
of Dreams
There's
no running away from dreams; they happen as a
consequence of waking. They tell us what we were and
what we shall become. They make our half lives whole.
While we breathlessly rush about one hemisphere, they
keep us quietly asleep in a comer of the other.
In
dreams the earth looks round, just like our schoolbooks
said. The sun's heat is intense and stars shiver in
their cold light Trees of happiness grow around us.
Someone on a bicycle goes by; we hear a radio.
We see our roots immersed in clear water. We see the
moon shining in a small dark room.
In
dreams we see that we are righteous men. We see an
old cracked mirror. We see blood coming out of our nose.
'Svapnon
ki kavita'
translated from Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Poem
of Paper
One day we find sheets of paper that once were important lying everywhere
around us. We see them even as we go to sleep. They put a stop to our
dreams and cause insomnia. Much as we'd like to, we cannot sell them
to the ragman, for in them our everyday lives, those things we hesitate
to admit to ourselves, are buried. We have to sit down and tear them
up instead.
This is how old letters get torn, written by sympathetic friends when
we were down and out. Declarations of unrequited love, along with some
poems by major poets, words we believed would remove the world's hunger,
get reduced to shreds. This paper now won't make a child's boat or his
airplane even, the kind that goes a short distance and turns back.
We've become wordless, and all but lost our speech. We go on tearing
the paper. It's our only hope.
Kaghaz
ki kavita'
translated from Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
Letter
to Children
Dear
children, we could do nothing for you. You wanted us to join in your
games, and you wanted to play ours, you wanted us to become innocent
like yourselves.
Dear children, we told you living was a war without end. We sharpened
the knives and were the first to use them. Hatred and anger made us
blind. Dear children we lied to you.
This has been a long night, long as a tunnel, and though the view outside
is clouded, we hear the weeping. Children forgive us for sending you
there. We lied when we said life was a battleground.
Dear children, life's a festival through which you spread like laughter,
it's a green tree, and you the birds fluttering inside it; it's a tossed
ball-as the poets say, and you the restless feet that surround it.
Dear children, if it's not so then it ought to be.
'Bachchon
ke liye ek chitthi'
translated from Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
DADA
KI TASVIR: Two translations of a poem
1.
A Picture of Grandfather
Grandfather
had no interest in getting pictures taken
Or he didn't have the time
There's just a single picture of him, hanging on an old stained wall
He's sitting there calm and serious
Like a cloud heavy with rain
All that's known about Grandfather
Is that he gave alms to those who sought them
He turned anxiously in his sleep
And in the morning on waking
Straightened the rumpled bedding
I was very young then
I never saw his anger
Never saw his ordinariness
Pictures never show a person's helplessness
Mother says that while we're sleeping
Surrounded by strange nocturnal creatures
Grandfather stays awake in this picture
I didn't grow as tall as my grandfather
Or as calm and serious
But there is something in me resembling him
The same rage, the same ordinariness
I too walk with head bowed
And live seeing myself sitting
In an empty picture frame.
Dada
ki tasvir
Translated from Hindi by Rupert Snell
2.
Grandfather's
Photograph
Grandfather wasn't fond of being photographed
or didn't find time perhaps
There's just one picture of him
hanging on an old discolored wall
He sits serious and composed
like a cloud heavy with water
All we know of Grandfather is
that he gave alms to beggars
tossed restlessly in sleep
and made his bed neatly every morning
I was just a kid then
and never saw his anger or
his ordinariness
Pictures never show someone's helpless side
Mother used to tell us that
when we fell asleep surrounded
by strange creatures of the night
Grandfather would stay awake inside the picture
I didn't grow as tall as Grandfather
not as composed or as serious
Still something in me resembles him
An anger like his
an ordinariness
I too walk with my head bent down
and every day see myself
sitting in an empty
picture frame.
'Dada
ki tasvir'
translated from Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
A
Dream
I fell all of a sudden
as if out of a dream
as one trips and falls
on the street
It was a dream of my skin falling away
along with my soul
A dream of mouth and hair falling
my home fell along with me
Things I stuffed in my pocket
took out and
put back again
Moments
fell relentless
all that I had been through
Down fell sounds of sobbing and weeping
Someone flung down
My clothing as well
Beyond wind and rain
I tumbled past earth
and the realm beneath
Still falling I saw
a flash
the one pushing me down laughing
and laughing.
'Girna'
translated from Hindi by Christi Merrill
Civilization
We believe a man must be out there still, in some unknown cave readying
his bow for battle. If he should be sighted our cameras rush to record
his nakedness. It is said that he lived in our houses once with his
entire clan. They worshipped masks and worried about nothing but talking
to the birds and the sea. We put our masks on them in place of theirs
and took their bows, useless in this modem day and age, for our own
purposes. One by one their birds fell at our feet.
Scholars have many theories about where they have gone. Perhaps they
were drowned at sea or disappeared with the birds or maybe our masks
were too much for them. However some people say a long battle was fought
and when only a single clansman survived we gave him back his mask and
bow and banished him to a distant cave. Civilization demanded that there
be one man there-not just a picture but a living breathing naked thing.
Sabhyata'
Translated from Hindi by the poet and Christi Merrill
A
Picture
Long ago there was only sky of ever-changing colors with
clouds racing underneath/Then grass sprouted and a bird began to sing.
The sound of a fluse floated in the air. In the night for the first
time the stars appeared so close mat we could touch them. Sometimes
they joined us in play and twinkled in our eyes--Trees had no names
then and the stones used to sleep like newborn children. The lights
that burn at night were thought to chase away whatever threatened.
Now all this has been stored in our memory: the sky opens out like an
umbrella the stars are stuck in their faraway places the trees and the
flying birds are no more and the innocence of stones has come to an
end. This is our precious picture we ve put in a frame. Looking at the
night's twinkling lights we call them the eyes of our village.
'Tasvir'
translated from Hindi by Christi Merrill and Daniel Weissbort
A
Tale of Love
No one sees them
as they walk together
in an embrace
as they look into each other's eyes
No one notices them
people say oh it was probably just the wind
or a sound
the footsteps of strangers passing by
At times they go very far away
from people from silence
as if making a boat of their kisses
in which they sail
on the current of their sweat
they call each other over and over
others say it's all nonsense
we don't remember our dreams
much of the time
Lovers in their world
in this world
whose eyes shed tears
as freely as trees their leaves
their eyes are not shielded
by sunglasses
but we didn't see anything
just smudges here and there
There's an old tale
a beautiful dream-sequence
a bird that would sit in a quiet tree
and sing for hours on end
a few old men and old women still recall it
and fall silent
as they look into each other's eyes.
'Premkatha'
translated from Hindi by the poet and Wanda Boeke
An
Act
I
shore up confidence each morning
as I set out from home
hoping to maintain my composure
I meet a man and smile
he suddenly sees my sorrow
Eagerly I shake hands with another
who senses the agony deep inside me
I sit with a friend in silence
He says you look sickly and gaunt
Those who never set foot in my house
say oh we saw you on TV the other day
I wander mute through bazaars
A whole country's being packed into boxes
Life itself for sale
A slick new book has appeared in the stands
slighting my poetry
Those glossy faces look untroubled
Dancers strike poses thoughtlessly
Yessir it's all a big movie
Buy it now
Satisfaction guaranteed
The rest is nothing but an act
Voices sound from every direction
No time to change the make-up even
The murderer enters wearing the guise of innocence
The wicked preach a message of love
He who was so dignified
now blubbers and pleads
Tragedy seldom appears the farce plays long
All of them trying to grab
the Award for Best Actor.
'Abhinay'
translated from Hindi by Christi Merrill
My
Face
Mother
didn't recognize me
when I came back home
covered in dirt from head to toe
Mother wiped away the dirt
and the dried out mud beneath
She scrubbed a while longer
Then peeled away the robes and masks
I'd put on
who knows how long ago
She stripped away another layer
one just like my face
As it appeared before her
she drew back stunned
Seeing nothing there but emptiness
a gaping wound
cross-hatched with lines
Chehra
translated from Hindi by the poet and Christi Merrill
The
Sounds
Soon
it will begin
to fill in with sounds
The
dog's bark
up the lane the whining horse
jackals on the outskirts
Crickets
chirping in between
the rustling of leaves
A solitary walk somewhere
in a lonesome street
Farther
away a tiger
They would hear a roar
over my hamlet.
'Avazen'
translated from Hindi by Girdhar Rathi
Words
Some
words scream
Some take off their clothes
And barge into history
Some fall silent.
'Shabd'
Translated from the Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
The
Accompanist
Supporting the heavy monolith of the main singer's voice
His own was graceful, thin and quavering.
He is the singer's younger brother
Or a pupil
Or a distant relative who comes on foot to learn.
Since long ago
The resonance of his voice has echoed
The sonority of his master's;
And when the singer's lost his way
In the tangled jungle of melodic uplands
Or strays into the void of unstruck sound
Beyond the further reaches of the scale
It's the accompanist who holds the steady theme,
Gathering up the things the singer left behind,
Reminding him of childhood days
When he was a novice;
When the singer's voice gives way in the higher register,
Inspiration deserting him and fervour waning,
An ashiness shedding from his voice
Then the accompanist's tones emerge to blend with his;
Or it may be that he joins in simply
To show the singer that he's not alone
And that the song that's sung and done
Can be sung anew once more
And that the audible faltering in his voice
Or his wilful avoidance of the higher notes
Is evidence not of ineffectuality
But of humanity.
'Sangatkar'
Translated by Rupert Snell
A
Picture of Father
There
are lots of little pictures of Father
Scattered throughout the house
His eyes sparkle brightly
with something far-seeing
Goodness or courage
In the picture Father doesn't cough
He's not agitated
His hands and legs don't ache
He does not stoop or compromise
One day Father stands next to his picture
And begins explaining
Just as a teacher shows a map to his pupils
Father says I'm not like my picture
But the new rooms I've added
In this old house, you take them
Take my goodness to battle against those evils
That you'll meet along the way
Don't take my sleep take my dreams
It's me who's worried who is agitated
I stoop and compromise
I groan with the pain in my hands and feet
I cough like Father
I look at Father's picture for a long time
'Pita
ki tasvir'
Translated by Rupert Snell
A
Picture of Mother
There's
no picture of Mother in the house
Whenever there's a chance of having pictures taken
Mother is looking for something that's been misplaced
Or has gone for wood or grass or water
Several times she encountered a tiger in the jungle
But she wasn't afraid
She chased the tiger away cut grass and came home
Lit the fire and cooked for everyone
I
never went to the jungle for grass or wood
Never lit the fire
I mostly just sat on the old carved chair
That has been used for taking pictures for ages
On Mother's face I see a picture of a jungle
A picture of wood grass and water a picture
Of something that's been misplaced
'Man
ki tasvir'
Translated by Rupert Snell
A
Picture of Myself
This
is a picture
In which a little courage gleams
And poverty appears concealed
Its darkness lurks
Behind the brightness the picture was taken in
The
composure of this face
Is a mask for unease
Compassion and cruelty mingle here
A little pride is sunk deep in shame
And though the age for fighting passes unengaged
It bears the anguish of one returned from war
And these are the eyes which tell that love on which all things depend
Is growing less with every day
Between
self-entrancement and buffoonery
One picture amongst many
Which I have taken over and over
In the vain hope of an improvement
'Apni
tasvir'
Translated by Rupert Snell
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