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Archive for the ‘Telugu’ Category

Laddaafni

Wednesday, February 16th, 2011

I was born in a Turk* home because I was a kismetwali, they said,

as if I had grabbed an unattainable good fortune

and from that moment, as my folks had decided,

I had become a real Muslim

How low should one bow to each relative

Who should not see you

Why one should stick one's head inside the pallu..

Meaningless rasmo-rivaaj and a half-learnt language:

I became a rolled paan caught between two jaws

but my folks had decided that

I had become an asli Turk girl

Though realizing that I am being sacrificed, when like a dumb animal

I go to some Walima or Gulposhi

Amidst the rustle and flashes of their zari and Urdu

My voice shrinks and shrivels

into a lonely cotton sari

An unseen feeling of helplessness

clasps my mouth like a bridle

I am spun around the hall, even as I stand still,

by the whirlwinds of their stares

blowing through the branches of their eyelids,

Does she or doesn't she– my knowledge of Urdu

is tested by a display of their own skill and aptitude

and as the results show in the smirks on their faces

my tears of embarassment, which can't dare break boundaries,

wallow within my eyes, exactly like me.

No one recognizes me as human,

looking at me as a heap of cleaned cotton

they are always eager to blow me away with mere words

But my folks have decided

that I have become a pucca Turk girl.

Why should I become an answer in inverted commas

About unknown riiti-rivaaj

About unpronounceable Durood Suras–

To the endless question marks on their faces?

 

When my shouhar doesn't assume my Dudekula-ness**

Why should I bear the stamp of asli Muslim-ness?

When poverty swallowed my dreams and hunger my time,

my childhood, spent sobbing into floor rugs,

learnt only to stitch mattresses,

Why should I grieve

over the Urdu and Arabic I didn't learn?

 

Ab sau baar sabke saamne chillaaoongii

haan..main Laddaafni hoon..!

Laddaafni hii rahoongii!!

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'laddaafni' by Shajahana ( from the collection of poetry 'alaava: muslim samskRti kavitvam' ).

 

* Turk: or Turaka ( pronounced turaka ); a term used by Non-Muslims mostly, often derogatorily, for Muslims. 

** Dudekula/Laddaf: community associated, traditionally, with cotton carding.

Other Urdu/Hindustani words/phrases used in the poem:

kismetwali: lucky woman/girl; pallu: loose end of the sari; rasmo-rivaaj and riiti-rivaaj: customs, rituals and traditions; shouhar: husband.

Gongadi

Monday, February 14th, 2011

Suddenly

if the sky sends a heavy downpour

you will gape in surprise, get drenched

I will spread my rug over my head

and beam like a lotus leaf on the ocean;

If you need fire in that storm

you'll stand on your head and do penance

to find a matchstick

I will produce my piece of flint

and a little cotton

and start a fire in an instant;

In winter, when you get the shivers

you'll roll on the ground begging God to save you

I use the the scissors from my Kammari* brother,

shear wool from my sheep

and weave a rug to wrap myself!

You grew into landlords from the crops

grown with my flock's shit

I offered you my sheep, raised like a child, for your feast

but you called me a crazy golla**;

You bania rascals!

Now I've come into the street,

my gongadi+ on my shoulder and holding my stick,

Now I shall watch over men not sheep

Now I shall fertilize the nation not fields

I''ll wrap my gongadi around this nation

shivering from your atrocities!

I can not only watch over sheep,

I also know how to cut down useless ones!

 

My translation of Kancha Ilaiah's Telugu poem 'gongaDi' (from the collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina paaTa' )

 

* Kammari: blacksmith.

** Golla: here, it means 'shepherd'. 'Crazy golla' refers to a popular stereotype, a negative trait (stubbornness etc) attributed to people from the communities raising livestock.

+ Gongadi: or gongali (pronounced gongaDi and gongaLi respectively)., rug or blanket made of coarse material (like sheep's wool).

The parrot and the jungle

Saturday, February 12th, 2011

This parrot

hadn't even seen eighteen springs.

Leaving the world, the cage of swords,

and its paper springs

it flew away to the faraway jungle,

eating guns and bayonets

as tender leaves.

It played ball with bombs.

While other children of its age

played with toy donkeys

it played with axes.

It hadn't even completed

practising on leaf slates

the alphabet of its experiences

to read and rule the world

when hunters, spotting its red beak,

shot it down.

The parrot died

but the jungle is still spreading.

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'cilakaa-aDivii' by Sikhamani (from his collection of poetry 'muvvala cEtikarra' ).

Away from me…

Thursday, February 10th, 2011

The pregnant full moon

giving birth to moonlight

weaves a garland of jasmines

around my dark Malapalli*

 

Soft light

through the Rellu+ grass

flashes honed smiles

that pound my heart

 

The wild flowers by the stream,

dewdrops, like little bells around ankles,

touch my feet and beam

 

The sweat that silently drops

from the furrows of my forehead

becomes ears of rice

that bow and salaam me with humility

 

But!

He, still adjusting his janeu, is edging,

towards the borders of the hill,

away from me…

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'naaku duurangaa..'  by J.Gautam ( from his collection of poetry 'nalu dikkulanunchii ranDi' ).

 

* Malapalli : the Mala quarter of a village.

+ Rellu: kind of reed, saccharum spontaneum, used for thatching and as fodder ( J.P.L.Gwynn's Telugu-English dictionary).

‘Our kids are competing’

Tuesday, February 8th, 2011

I, swearing by labour,

                  shape wood with my adze

You, with nothing to do,

                  are scratching my face

                  with pitiless malice

I, swearing by labour,

                  bring a sparkling shine

                  to your soiled and dirty

                  white clothes

You, with nothing to do,

                  are infecting my child's child

                  with untouchability

I, swearing by labour,

                   fold fine clothes on the loom

                   into a matchbox

You, with nothing to do,

                   are turning me, through deceit,

                   into a loincloth clad beggar

I, swearing by labour,

                  seeing you eat raw leaves, roots

                  give you pots

                  to cook

You, with nothing to do,

                 are making a hole in my pot,

                 tying a lid over my mouth

I, swearing by labour,

                 skin myself

                 to make shoes for you

You, with nothing to do,

                 are tying a palmyra leaf to my waist

                 erasing my traces

I, swearing by labour,

                  use my body's strength

                  and my mind's wisdom

                  as bricks to build mansions

You, with nothing to do,

                  are uprooting foundations

                  to make me a servant

                  in my own home             

That's why I tell you bluntly

                  whether you wish to stitch your own chappals

                  or bang your head against the ground, it's your choice

Whether you wish to wash your own clothes

or run around naked like babas, it's your choice

You grandchildren of the manu dharma

which arranged a step ladder for caste

and supported it with religion,

our kids are competing

to play marbles with your heads.

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'maa pillOllu pOTii paDutunnaaru' by G.V.Ratnakar (from the collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina paaTa').

Seeds

Monday, February 7th, 2011

We all waited for the seeds

for long

then the rumour spread that they're available

and everyone became anxious, a bustle started.

 

The babus called the police

and the police arrived– would they stay quiet..?

They chased and hit everyone who ran,

even Yellaiah who scampered to the bus stand wasn't spared,

someone was pulled from the phone booth,

stripped down and beaten with a lathi.

Oh God!.. God, what have we done to you?

Didn't the frog mother dance for the rains?

Didn't we offer pots of festive rice to the goddess?

With the first rains, we started ploughing:

don't know about the seeds, but our backs split and the lathis broke.

 

Don't know whose fault it was but we had to pay the penalties;

we who believe in land– if police lathis are our lot–

we can't till the fields, sow seeds or go on with this life.

 

A bullet hit Yellaiah and the blood formed a pool

they took him to the hospital in the town

the minister said Yellaiah had nothing to fear

the chief minister said he'd appoint a judge to enquire

 

The day before yesterday– there was firing in Kaldari,

yesterday– it was the turn of the salt farmers in Chinna Ganjampeta,

today– guns seem to have chosen death as the Chevella farmers' fate

 

When a small farmer dies a hundred more won't be born

but a rebellion will.

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'yittunaalu' by Siddenki Yadagiri (from his collection of poetry 'maa tovva' ). This poem is the poet's response to an  incident of police firing (and other similar acts of repression) a few years ago on a group of small farmers  who had lined up at a distribution centre for subsidised seeds in Chevella, a small town in Ranga Reddy district of Andhra Pradesh.

Untouchable rape

Wednesday, February 2nd, 2011

This is untouchable Sunitha,

the once-upon-a-time girl

you all forgot, speaking:

I address myself as untouchable because

in this land

just as there are untouchable hunger,

untouchable loot

there are untouchable (atma)hatyas*

and untouchable rapes too

You might be surprised

but I swear by my love for Yogishwar Reddy

that I am an untouchable suicide..!

Otherwise, I too

would have sizzled like something spicy from a tandoor

on the dining tables of parliament

instead of being buried behind the newspapers …!

Here, because education,

love and marriage too

smell and taste of caste

our Nirmala's death a few days ago

was also attributed to 'natural causes'

Talking about the recent issue of our Chanti:

as soon as she learnt a few letters,

the pantulamma**, afraid that her caste-less eyes

might shine forth with new knowledge,

demanded her tantalizing eyes

as gurudakshina

Do we need

to talk about the lowborn nurses in the hospitals?

She, with sleepless eyes lit with love

tends to tumours, day and night,

but instead of commending her

for being as self-less as Florence Nightingale

they creep into her 'sisterly' heart

as cancerous cells

Here, for loss of honour and life

we are, once in a while,

compensated in cash

But the surprising part is,

even after (murder) death

we don't get a fistful of honour;

moreover, we're subjected to

lance-like comments–

'who asked her to sleep around' or 'who asked her to die'–

that pierce our souls

and kill us again

Now tell me

in this land

are even murders and rapes

free of untouchability…?

 

(In memory of Sunitha)

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'anTaraani atyaachaaram' by Challapalli Swarooparani (from the collection of poetry 'daLita kavitvam – 2'). Sunitha, in whose memory this poem was written, was a student of the University of Hyderabad (in the nineties) who had committed suicide. Nirmala and Chanti (not the victim's real name; 'chanTi' – or 'little one' in Telugu- is a term of affection used to address a child) refer to other Dalit victims of violence. Chanti, as far as I can remember, was a schoolgirl who was so badly beaten by her teacher that she lost an eye.

 

* (atma)hatya: hatya means murder in Telugu, while aatmahatya stands for suicide.

** pantulamma: female teacher (colloquial). 

Gawaah

Tuesday, January 25th, 2011

As a child, when I bid adaab to him

saying 'Salaam-alei-kum mamu'

he blessed me wishing my words should come true,

Now when I expressed my wish to marry Haseena

this Muslim society,

which rejected my wish

like a flock of cotton

deriding me as a Dudekula

not understanding love..and affection,

drives me away

calling me a Kaafir;

In God's name,

Haseena pleaded,

as she stepped away

choosing to travel on a path of thorns

drawing away from me, forget me lover;

When God's witness itself

proved useless against the curse

of my Dudekula caste, unable to curse it,

I nurse memories soft as cotton,

which prick like thorns,

while I wander around in this desert

searching for an oasis.

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'gawaah' written by Mohammed Akbar (from the collection of poetry 'alaava: muslim sanskrti kavitvam').

Come as a herald!

Thursday, January 20th, 2011

Today, when new lives shall be planted

by digging up roots

from the time that doesn't return,

ascend these moonlit steps

and walk into my poem

 

Now, defying the dwija's role

'Chandala'!

Walk into my poem as a herald!

 

Come, to pour boiling lead

into the ears of the history that boycotted you!

 

Come so that you can

pee into the current Manu's mouth!

Come!

 

My translation of Pagadala Nagender's Telugu poem 'vaitALikuDavai raa! padyamlOki' (from the collection of Dalit poetry 'daLita kavitvam- 2'  edited by Dr.K.Lakshminarayana).

People’s song

Friday, December 3rd, 2010

In the Gummadis'* hut                                           // O Lachcha Gummadi //

the song was born and grew

Lachchumamma's womb bore fruit

and the people's song was born

In the Malas' wada

the Dalit song was born

On the Madigas' dappu

the song learnt rythm

To the tune of the coolies' anklets

it learnt to dance

With the Wadderas'** hammer

it learnt to sing together

At the dhobi ghat

it was taught to move faster

The barbers' razor

sang a refrain for the song

The Kammari's*** kiln

sang a beat for the song

The Golla Kurma's+ gongadi++

sang the chorus for the song

Flying past the farms and fields

past the factory gates

The song became one with the wind

and flew past the skies

The exploiters who heard the song

trembled in their hearts

All the songs became spears

and brought down the exploiters' fortress;

To strangle the song's throat

they started plotting:

twilight hadn't passed

the stars hadn't even appeared

but the villains attacked

and fired bullet after bullet

Struck by the rulers' bullet

the song collapsed

Struck by the killers' bullet

the song fainted

Struck by bullet after bullet

the dappu grew silent

Struck by a bullet in the abdomen

the song spurted blood

Collapsing in a pool of blood

the song bathed fully

Mother Earth became pregnant

and gave birth to the song again

Even though the big life started leaving

hanging onto the remaining life

the song stood up

and started walking

Even though it was losing breath

it rose hanging onto the remaining little

From the blood filled abyss

the song rose like the dawn

Mother moonlight smiled

because the song was reborn

Village after village smiled

as the Dalit jaatis' hearts were filled

Lathis and bullets

can't stop the people's song

Bayonets and bullets

can't stop the song's refrain

Every hour, a song will be born

and build graves for the exploiters

Every hut will give birth to a song

and bring down the exploiters' fortresses.                      // O Lachcha Gummadi //

 

My translation of the Telugu song 'janampaaTa' by Guda Anjaiah (from his collection od songs/ballads 'uuru manadiraa!'). This 'people's song' is most probably Anjaiah's tribute to 'praja kavi' Gaddar ('people's poet') who survived a muderorous attack by unknown assailants (most likely, policemen in civil clothes) who pumped five bullets into him, on April 6, 1997. Hundreds of songs written by Guda Anjaiah have formed a valuable part of the repertory of Dalitbahujan artistes across Andhra Pradesh, and across India (through translations). People's songs, the Dalitbahujan poets and performers believe (most times, the performers are poets themselves), belong to the peopleGaddar has consistently performed Anjaiah's songs over the years.

 

* Gummadi: pronounced 'gummaDi', it means pumpkin. But it is also Gaddar's surname or family name (his real name is Gummadi Vittal Rao). The original meaning (and origin) of the refrain 'O Lachcha Gummadi', which is repeated at the end of every line, is lost in time. It is taken from one of the many genres of work or chore related songs/ballads sung by Dalitbahujan women. Lachchumamma, in the song, refers to Gaddar's mother.

** Wadderas: pronounced waDDera; refers to the community of stone-workers (vaddera,  odde, oddilu, oddera, odra etc). 

*** Kammaris: refers to the community of smiths, metal-workers.

+ Golla Kurma: refers to the community of shepherds/goatherds (kuruma, kurma, kuruiba etc).

++ gongadi: pronounced 'gongaDi'; also called gongali. Refers to the coarse blanket or rug (made of wool, mostly) used by shepherds etc.

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