Leading Ordinary Lives / Kunwar Narayan

Kunwar Narayan
(Translation mine)

I know
I can’t change the world,
Or win a fight against it.

It’s possible that I
Become a martyr fighting
And beyond that earn a martyr’s
Tomb or an artist’s fame…

But being a martyr
Is a different game altogether

There are people who despite
Leading entirely ordinary lives
Have been known to become
Martyrs, quietly.

मामूली ज़िन्दगी जीते हुए / कुंवर नारायण

जानता हूँ कि मैं
दुनिया को बदल नहीं सकता,
न लड़ कर
उससे जीत ही सकता हूँ

हाँ लड़ते-लड़ते शहीद हो सकता हूँ
और उससे आगे
एक शहीद का मकबरा
या एक अदाकार की तरह मशहूर…

लेकिन शहीद होना
एक बिलकुल फ़र्क तरह का मामला है

बिलकुल मामूली ज़िन्दगी जीते हुए भी
लोग चुपचाप शहीद होते देखे गए हैं

Advertisements

They Also Serve

Waiting is a sculpture you chisel
day in and out. Shape and reshape
until you can release it to the earth’s

gravity. Winter, the tenacious
Woodpecker, chips away at my skin,
Keeping it fresh and hungry for spring.

In sterilized, naked corridors
outside intensive care units,
you hoist your waiting. This is

where you test its tensile strength.
Its brittleness. Doctors and nurses
hold it for you. Sometimes it still

gives in. Submissions, exams, job
interviews, marriage proposals, flight
intervals — the sugar rush of waiting.

The sculpture becomes a chemical
substance. You’re drawn to it more
than that which you once waited for.

The Wolf’s Eyes are Red/Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena

(Tr. mine)

The wolf’s eyes are red.
Glare at him
Until your eyes
Turn red, too.
What other choice do you have
When it’s in front of you?

भेड़िए की आंखें सुर्ख हैं / सर्वेश्वरदयाल सक्सेना

भेड़िए की आंखें सुर्ख हैं।
उसे तबतक घूरो
जब तक तुम्हारी आंखें
सुर्ख न हो जाएं।
और तुम कर भी क्या सकते हो
जब वह तुम्हारे सामने हो?

LISTENING TO U. SRINIVAS

Mandolin’s secrets have no use for cover.
They burst open into reveried splinters
And flood your waking dreams.

Mandolin lures moody southern
Winds; blows them lustily in your
Courtyard. The breeze ruffles
Your hair, your sourness.

At temples, Mandolin gathers the
Holy fire of the morning sun to bathe
Your face.

When Mandolin plays, you turn
Into a snake and slither without a hiss
To a corner where the string
Charmer leads you.

Mandolin indoctrinates without
A mantra. Magicians rarely
Need one. You become a bird and
fly away with Mandolin.

More on U. Srinivas here.

 

Book Review: Love and the Turning Seasons – India’s Poetry of Spiritual & Erotic Longing

I recently had the opportunity tot read “Love and the Turning Seasons,” an exquisite collection of bhakti poetry in translation from Aleph. I wrote about it in Kitaab.

Love and the Turning Seasons

Title: Love and the Turning Seasons – India’s Poetry of Spiritual & Erotic Longing
Edited by Andrew Schelling
Publisher: Aleph
Pages: 294
Price: ₹399

I left shame behind,

took as an ornament
the mockery of local folk.
Unswerving, I lost my cleverness
in the bewilderment of ecstasy.

— Manikkavacakar (9thcentury), Tr. A.K. Ramanujan

In a lover’s enraptured world, love is the breeze that strips one, quite simply, of the garment of shame. In reading Love and the Turning Seasons, the newest offering from Aleph Classics, a series that aims to bring new translations of India’s literary heritage, the reader is swept in that denuding breeze. Edited by Andrew Schelling, the collection of poems bears the slightly beguiling subtitle, India’s Poetry of Spiritual & Erotic Longing. I say beguiling because it would seem like the poems could fall in either category – spiritual or erotic. In reality, as Manikkavacakar, the ninth-century Shiva devotee tells us, the line between the two states is as diaphanous as air itself. For, in the “bewilderment of ecstasy”, who is left to distinguish between the flesh and the spirit? This seamless merging of the body and the soul is at the heart of this anthology of bhakti poetry, translated by various poets and literary translators.

Love and the Turning Seasons alights upon the reader as a songbird to take her across time and space – from the sixth century (barring the Isa Upanishad) right up to the twentieth, on an anticlockwise path beginning in the south of India and ending in the east. Despite the multiplicity of expressions of the bhaktas or poet-minstrels, informed as they were by specific cultural and regional parlance, what unifies them is their rejection of societal norms in their unwavering quest for the divine. These were among the first true radicals in the Indian context, repudiating, with delightful contempt, tradition and convention. Gender-bending, caste-subverting, these individuals lived and (even) died on their own terms and sang of the divine with ariose abandonment. As Lal Ded, another Shiva devotee from Kashmir said,

Who instructed you, O Brahmin,
to cut this sheep’s throat—
to placate a lifeless stone?

— Lal Ded (early 1300s), Tr. Andrew Schelling

 

The Sanskrit word bhakti means devotion and has come to connote intense, even blind idolatry, and in these troublingly skewed times, bhakta (devotee) has become a bad word, an uncomplimentary term for blind followers of certain ideologies, political or otherwise. As the anthology affirms through its diverse voices, the bhakti poets were anything but blind in their devotion.

Read the rest in Kitaab.

 

 

Day’s End

The evening adjusts the hem
of her smooth rose wine
stole. You and I move
to the back porch. The sky
flushes to allure us with its
pink. But work and all that
went wrong with it take their
toll.

Bird wings hustle. Soon it will
be dark. We’ll pick up our
half-sipped glasses of
wine. When the day’s fatigue,
its taunts, its grime start
sinking us, the evening’s
blush will still leave its
mark.

The Crop by Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena

Translation: Bhaswati Ghosh

Even if I were to
hold the pen
like a plow,
a spade
or a trowel,
I wouldn’t be able to
harvest the crop.

I can only prepare the soil.
A few rare ones will sow the seeds of revolution
and nourish my toil,
carrying my journey forward.

Tomorrow, when I’m no longer there,
the crop will grow and flourish,
ripple in the breeze.
It’ll touch the feet
of those who planted the seeds
Those who harvest it will sow more seeds
I shall only sleep buried in the earth underneath.

Image result for crop

फसल / सर्वेश्वरदयाल सक्सेना

हल की तरह
कुदाल की तरह
या खुरपी की तरह
पकड़ भी लूँ कलम तो
फिर भी फसल काटने
मिलेगी नहीं हम को ।

हम तो ज़मीन ही तैयार कर पायेंगे
क्रांतिबीज बोने कुछ बिरले ही आयेंगे
हरा-भरा वही करेंगें मेरे श्रम को
सिलसिला मिलेगा आगे मेरे क्रम को ।

कल जो भी फसल उगेगी, लहलहाएगी
मेरे ना रहने पर भी
हवा से इठलाएगी
तब मेरी आत्मा सुनहरी धूप बन बरसेगी
जिन्होने बीज बोए थे
उन्हीं के चरण परसेगी
काटेंगे उसे जो फिर वो ही उसे बोएंगे
हम तो कहीं धरती के नीचे दबे सोयेंगे ।