Thursday, 4 December 2014
Thursday, 24 July 2014
LET US SPEAK OUT..!
Yes,
let us speak out:
desire to speak out itself a remarkable revelation!.
Fact and fiction in speech
no longer differentiable.
In fact,
What is compassion, or crookedness,
What is good or bad
no longer discernable!
Let us speak out
amidst words
that are like a sweet smile
acquired on vowing life;
that are like the unmolested raindrop,
that are like mother’s affectionate kiss!
Unfettering the shackled words
Let us speak out freely!
Yes, this is the time to speak out-
awaited this moment all these years avidly;
not for me alone
but, for all of us, this is the movement!
Time to dismantle demarcations,
Come dear
Let us speak out freely!
[ Translated from Telugu by T. S. Chandra Mouli & B. B. Sarojini from
the volume Sarihaddu Rekha (2002), poem titled Maatlladudaam (P.43) ]
You and Me
I wish to speak my words
Someone whispers them..!
On my way home
Her thought suddenly strikes me
At the gate…..
She awaits me like a letter..!
I try to shed my last tears
A rain drop on the cheek
Like her touch.!
I reach out for flowers
The chords within,
Like the invisible fragrance,
Fasten me..!
While walking
I stop and look back
As If called
….the lone dark shore..!
Transformed into air
I explore the sky
Earth, with a broad smile,
Awaits me..!
***
English: K.S.P. Roy
Someone whispers them..!
On my way home
Her thought suddenly strikes me
At the gate…..
She awaits me like a letter..!
I try to shed my last tears
A rain drop on the cheek
Like her touch.!
I reach out for flowers
The chords within,
Like the invisible fragrance,
Fasten me..!
While walking
I stop and look back
As If called
….the lone dark shore..!
Transformed into air
I explore the sky
Earth, with a broad smile,
Awaits me..!
***
English: K.S.P. Roy
Arc of Unrest
These tears have a language,
My unrest a script and
My oceanic upsurge
Roaring tides
Agony in the thought
Freezing at every step
I watch you break into pieces
In the battle field
Not even a single drop
Found in the time dissected
Impatience multiplied
At every passing step
The fist still clenched
And the last look oceanised.
*
No regrets
No words to sooth you
Can I war against this unrest ?
Can I burst like a flame ?
Let me swear on this rain drop
I shall trace my scrambled path
I shall shoulder this ocean
I shall bang the silence
On this tumbled wall
Yes…it is me
Stepping on this dark continent
Like dawn..!!
***
Telugu: Asaanthi Rekhammeenchi
English:K.S.P.Roy
Once Again
Body …
Running out in tides
Carrying the stray traces of grief
To the shore
Man…
Perhaps the ever-pouring rain
The callow foetus
Roaming between nights and days
We..
Men awaiting men
Only distance approaches
Bodies snake along
No space to stand
No syllable to say
Everything changing
At every instance
Darkness
Haunting the man for ever
Silence...every where…!
Silence along greets us
And moves off
Dull, disarrayed bodies
Chatting like
Gleeful waves of the sea
Playing on and off the shore
Darkness blooms not
Nor the body remains
No voice
No silence
Yet
Man sprouting
From the seeds of pain..!
Telugu: Avunnu mallee
English :K.S.P.ROY
Only one Life…
You have but only one life…
whether you are glad or gloomy;
win or vanquished;
rejoice or repent;
There is but just one life!
.
Within its scope,
desires pile up like tamarind sprigs
words course through the pathways to reach papers;
the slumbering letters
lie drowsing on the finger tips dreaming of wakening
and the enduring yearning of bodies
swims across the night with aching feet.
.
There is some consolation and some consternation;
.
Some instances and some intentions
beam and blow out like the hands of a clock
*
Would anybody ask about your wellbeing?
Would they bless you with something?
What more anyone would?
What else can anybody ask beyond this,
than asking, and cleansing themselves?
For that matter, what can anybody give?
*
There is but one life that won’t re-start,
and for sure, there is never a second stint.
Translation ~ Nauduri Murthy
The Run Within…
Did I forget something back home?
Did I lock the door properly?
Did I put off the geyser and put the milk bowl back in the frig?
Oh, damn it!
The three kittens might make a hell by the time I come home.
Well, maybe the tommy might not allow barking at them
And might even chase them away towards the gate.
But sometimes it sleeps like a log.
Btw did I logout from the laptop or
Left the FB open as it is?
Oh, bloody traffic and bloody traffic signals!
Caught in the jam as usual and resent it as usual.
A vacuous feeling if I didn’t resent.
There are only twelve minutes left for office.
Can I reach office in time?
Can I sign in on time?
Awful signal! How long shall I have to vent my anger
On these traffic signals?
*
Poetic diction has changed;the metaphors have changed.
In the confused and confounded life …
The scars of wounds from the run within lay scattered around.
There are traces of my bloodIn the flood swelling … breeching the roads.
Like the teething pain of stiff joints…
There are no dialogues between people.
There aren’t any more conversations.
All talk turns out to a rant of credits and debits;
About the life that exists between two pay packets ;
And reduces to a veritable P&L Statement
With its bills payable, liabilities, and net losses.
Occasionally, some books and few people
Like paintings on heart’s canvas
Lend their colour to our lives.
The dream of Sunday recurs for the rest of the six days.
A life… Sans traffic, sans locks, sans run…
A blank serene dreamless dream.
.
Translated by Nauduri Murthy
Did I lock the door properly?
Did I put off the geyser and put the milk bowl back in the frig?
Oh, damn it!
The three kittens might make a hell by the time I come home.
Well, maybe the tommy might not allow barking at them
And might even chase them away towards the gate.
But sometimes it sleeps like a log.
Btw did I logout from the laptop or
Left the FB open as it is?
Oh, bloody traffic and bloody traffic signals!
Caught in the jam as usual and resent it as usual.
A vacuous feeling if I didn’t resent.
There are only twelve minutes left for office.
Can I reach office in time?
Can I sign in on time?
Awful signal! How long shall I have to vent my anger
On these traffic signals?
*
Poetic diction has changed;the metaphors have changed.
In the confused and confounded life …
The scars of wounds from the run within lay scattered around.
There are traces of my bloodIn the flood swelling … breeching the roads.
Like the teething pain of stiff joints…
There are no dialogues between people.
There aren’t any more conversations.
All talk turns out to a rant of credits and debits;
About the life that exists between two pay packets ;
And reduces to a veritable P&L Statement
With its bills payable, liabilities, and net losses.
Occasionally, some books and few people
Like paintings on heart’s canvas
Lend their colour to our lives.
The dream of Sunday recurs for the rest of the six days.
A life… Sans traffic, sans locks, sans run…
A blank serene dreamless dream.
.
Translated by Nauduri Murthy
PLANT OF FLOWERS
This efflorescing tree
Brought in a new world into our abode
Ever since it learnt blossoming
All are appearing like wonders
In its hind, cute little birds are
Greeting with their squeaks
Resonating fragrant air
Head swinging leaves
Humming of black bees
Festive excitement all over the home
Peeping into the dwelling
like an emissary from the back yard
This efflorescing tree
Introduces ourselves to us afresh.
English Translation: Ch J Satyananda Kumar
Words Unspoken
Have we not remained
Silent* at every turn
Shall we speak from within
At least in our next meeting
What remains each time is the unsaid
“How do you do”…,”Doing well”
dry domestic chat dotted with
Silence that swallows time
Can you say we spoke what we meant
The words jammed in the voice box
While we were painting the future
In each other’s eyes
Still tease.
Have we not caged ourselves
To please one and all..!
Shall we speak from within
atleast in our next meeting
Have you ever spoken of
Your blackened eyelids and
The gloom sauntering on your face
Are we bold enough
To unfold ourselves even in dreams
The words within yet tease
Can we speak from within
At least in our next meeting...!!!
-***-
Telugu: Maatlaadani Maatalu
English:K.S.P.ROY
Silent* at every turn
Shall we speak from within
At least in our next meeting
What remains each time is the unsaid
“How do you do”…,”Doing well”
dry domestic chat dotted with
Silence that swallows time
Can you say we spoke what we meant
The words jammed in the voice box
While we were painting the future
In each other’s eyes
Still tease.
Have we not caged ourselves
To please one and all..!
Shall we speak from within
atleast in our next meeting
Have you ever spoken of
Your blackened eyelids and
The gloom sauntering on your face
Are we bold enough
To unfold ourselves even in dreams
The words within yet tease
Can we speak from within
At least in our next meeting...!!!
-***-
Telugu: Maatlaadani Maatalu
English:K.S.P.ROY
As it was...!
Every other thing is as it was
What is left is but finding you
1.
Before you turn into a number
Or finding where you were has been
The prime responsibility.
2.
Caught in the 'Tsunami' nothing else
Lost in some dead theory,
Moving around in utter confusion
Is in some beloved's insecure love
Find out first where exactly you are!
The entire problem is searching for.
3.
After repeated searching
Finally what ever comes and touches hand
That 'touch'
That is 'you'!-
Finally what all is mounded around
Is that falsehood that
You have been moving around with.
Remaining everything
Is the same unchanging mundane thing!!
#
(Translated into English by M V L Narasimham Naresh)
What is left is but finding you
1.
Before you turn into a number
Or finding where you were has been
The prime responsibility.
2.
Caught in the 'Tsunami' nothing else
Lost in some dead theory,
Moving around in utter confusion
Is in some beloved's insecure love
Find out first where exactly you are!
The entire problem is searching for.
3.
After repeated searching
Finally what ever comes and touches hand
That 'touch'
That is 'you'!-
Finally what all is mounded around
Is that falsehood that
You have been moving around with.
Remaining everything
Is the same unchanging mundane thing!!
#
(Translated into English by M V L Narasimham Naresh)
Conspiracy
Who knows them in their inner reality?
It is a conspiracy
Which is visible to the outer eye and audible to the ear
Is being focused as the reality in life
It is a conspiracy to equate the innocents -
Who could not ask food when they are hungry
Who could not ask water when they are thirsty -
With the effluent and secured class in the society
Looking at the beautiful upper shervani
Not looking at the torn inner-shirt
Looking at the mehandi embellished palms
Listening to the beautiful words
Not listening to the inner sorrows
Not looking at the melancholy behind the dazzling eyes
And the long faces behind the burkhas
Not talking about the blazing hunger
On the adolescence burning at hotels
Being soiled in the mechanic sheds
On the childhood that is burning on Ice-cream push carts
The creamy female youth that is sold only for a square meal
It is a conspiracy you never talk the inside
You talk about only
The inherited, empty, abandoned palaces and
Call them Navabs is a conspiracy
Their history through your word is a conspiracy
Can you give them back their old good life?
Which was exposed only by their false prestige
Should I ask the Allah, when can he give
The virtue of their five time namaz
Can they totally lean on Allah can they call him in ‘Azas’
Can they knock at him by their ritual fasting
Branding them as Navabs
covering them by the religious mask of muslims
is it not the hatched conspiracy
They lost the glorious past and the
present day consideration as back ward people
Flattering of their Charminar,
Showing the Tajmahal as symbol of love and cease off love towards them
Talking of Lalkhila, Fatepur sikri, Buland Darwaj, Gumbazas and Minars
Not talking of their hunger and gloomy life
Is a great conspiracy
When all these evidences prove a clear conspiracy
The word, the song the whole of their culture.. ‘they’
Become conspirators against the country.. Branded enemies
They entangled in the conspiracy and struggling for their own life
Velama, Reddy, Karanam, Munsub, Deshmukh
Who transformed the villages as mini forts
Misrules and oppressions of these mini forts
Took shelter under name of Navabs
Never come to fore but only ‘navabs’…
Is a conspiracy
When their religion is not alien while the whole village
Celebrate the ‘Moharram Festival’
When the iids and Idgas are not alien
while every one of village worships there for boons
But few miscreants’ mischiefs make
every one of them enemies to the country – is a conspiracy
Who knows them in their inner reality?
Which is visible to the outer eye and audible to the ear
Is being focused as the reality in life
Is a conspiracy..!!!
Translation~Dr.Pulikonda Subbachary
Awwal Kalima
Awwal Kalima
The Shared Mirror,Thursday, May 6th, 2010
You won't believe us
but no one's talking about our problems
now, again, it's the tenth or eleventh generation scions
of those who lost glories
who are speaking for all of us.
Is this what they call the loot of experience?!
In reality, Nawab, Muslim, Saaheb, Turk-
whoever's called by those names belongs to those classes-
those who lost power, jagirs, nawabi and patel splendours
they have retained, at least, traces of those honours
while our lives have always been caged between our limbs and our bellies.
We never had anything to save.
What would we have to recount….?
We who called our mothers 'amma'
never knew she was to be called 'Ammijaan'.
Abba, Abbajaan, Papa- that's how fathers are to be called, we're told
How would we know- our ayyas never taught us that.
Haveli, chardiwar, khilwat, purdah-
how could we of the thatched palaces know about them?
To perform Namaaz is to bow and rise, my grandfather said!
The language of Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem, Allahu Akbar, Roza-
we never learnt all that.
A festival meant rice and pickle for us
Biryanis, fried meats, pilaus and sheer khormas for you
You in Sherwanis, Rumi topis, Salim Shahi shoes
and dresses soaked in itr
We, resplendent in our old rags.
You won't believe us if we tell you
and we might end up only embarrassing ourselves.
Scentusaabu, Uddandu, Dastagiri, Naagulu, China Adaam,
Laaloo, Pedamaula, Chinamaula, Sheik Srinivasu,
Bethamcharla Moinu, Paatikatta Malsooru- aren't these our names.
Sheikh, Syed, Pathan- flaunting the glories of your khandaans
did you ever let us come closer to you!
Laddaf, Dudekula, Kasab, Pinjari…
we remained relics of the time when our work bit us as caste.
We became 'Binishtis' carrying water to your homes
and 'Dhobis' and 'Dhobans' who washed your clothes,
'Hajaams' when we cut your hair
and 'Mehtars, Mehtaranis' when we cleaned your toilets
as relics of the age when our work bit us as caste
we remained.
As you say, we're all 'Mussalmans'!
We don't disagree- but what about this discrimination?
We like it too- if these excavations will unearth those accounts
which had remained buried for long, why would we object!
What more do we need to know about the common enemy,
we need to discover the secret of this common friendship now!
We agree: all those who are oppressed are Dalits,
but we need to define what's oppression now!
Surprise- the language we know isn't ours, we're told!
We don't know the language you call ours
We've ended up as a people without a mother tongue.
Cast out for speaking Telugu.
'You speak good Telugu despite being a Mussalman'
Should I laugh or cry!
All our dreams are Telugu, our tears are Telugu too
when we cry out in hunger, or in pain
all our expression is Telugu!
We stood clueless when asked to perform Namaaz
jumped up in surprise when we heard the Azaans.
We searched for only ragas in the Suras.
When told to worship in a language we didn't know
we lost the right to the bliss of worship.
You won't believe us,
no one's talking about our problems.
Self respect is a 'dastarkhan' spread before everyone.
It isn't a privilege that belongs only to the high born.
No matter who belittles a fellow man's honour, betrayal's betrayal
the loot of experience is a bigger betrayal.
My translation of the Telugu poem 'Awwal Kalima' by Yakoob (from his 2002 book of poetry 'sarihaddu rEkha')
In the middle of conversations...
In the middle of conversations,
Did you ever feel
Being a stranger in yourself
Drowning in your own words?
Or
Did you ever feel that moment
Where you linger with those words
That you never spoke?
In those paths that you pave for yourself,
roaming, soaking,
counting your own footsteps,
chewing those old words
did you ever feel
like an unmoved rock, for a moment
b e t w e e n
conversations.
In this commercialized world,
Where humanity is nothing but the
feedstock in factory,
In those strategies of Capitalism
to convert an emotion to a mathematical equation
Did you ever think where you and your words are going?
Or
You see everything
And still pretend
like you had never seen?
____________
Translation~Ro Hith
A MATTER OF LONG TIME
As the bear hides in the Tuniki tree in a vale
Desire is asleep in the body
All the villagers are running towards the dale
To drive out the bear ---
But what about this body?
Nets cast all around Spies set on already
It’s not scared Doesn’t move It expels its own self, rebels
It’s impossible ever to escape
The passion is familiarized
To run away It never resists
Better it’s to concealIn the body rather than revolt
As it is an ease of habitual virtue
***
(Tuniki tree a kind of tree with a black bark. it is also called beedi tree of which the dried leaves are rolled into small cheap cigars called beedis)
Telugu original : OKAPPATI MATA …by kavi yakoob
Translation by Jagathi
All the villagers are running towards the dale
To drive out the bear ---
But what about this body?
Nets cast all around Spies set on already
It’s not scared Doesn’t move It expels its own self, rebels
It’s impossible ever to escape
The passion is familiarized
To run away It never resists
Better it’s to concealIn the body rather than revolt
As it is an ease of habitual virtue
***
(Tuniki tree a kind of tree with a black bark. it is also called beedi tree of which the dried leaves are rolled into small cheap cigars called beedis)
Telugu original : OKAPPATI MATA …by kavi yakoob
Translation by Jagathi
Sleeplessness
Sleep keeps away from me
Haven’t I told you
Not to keep sleep with you only
Lest I’m rendered slumberless
I search for you a lot but to no avail
I contemplate taking from you the forty winks
By cowing or coaxing
But never would you condescend
To give me the needed sleep
Like a lotus at the centre of an open lake
A relaxed being you are in a quiet cottage.
You are a soul ensconced blithely and cozily
amid many a cool touch
Getting roasted
In the scorching heat of the sun
I stay here far away from you.
When I lay immersed here
In the thoughts about you
How can I get any sleep
Original (Telugu): Yakoob
Translated by: Elanaaga
Should Have Something Left For Us
A place, a native town
Or an acquaintance at least
Is needed to frequent on and off
When words shatter and melt
Purports scatter, scare and wilt
And thoughts vanish into distant horizons
A habitation is needed
To learn words anew
When desires disappear, making body a lean stick
Rarefied reflections render heart an empty shell
And every route is shut
Leaving pitch darkness all around
A sprinkle of greeting is needed
To sprout anew
A veritable life of your own
To enter at your will is needed.
Not as a mere figure carrying lungi and banian
In the present, oscillating into past and future
Should one live.
From the sickening payments of monthly bills
And the senseless smiles of sham stratagems
Should one sail smoothly into pithy life
Like a fluttering finch
Entering its nest at least
Should one embrace life with finesse.
Quench we should, our thirst
By parting the water of a flowing rivulet.
Rise we should, from the relics of a bee
Waiting on the lump of wax
Thrown after squeezing the oozing honeycomb.
To sink into yourself
To smoulder and be left as yourself
A person should at least be available to you.
Original (Telugu): Yakoob
Translated by: Elanaaga
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)