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Archive for the ‘Telugu’ Category

Wrap me in a raindrop flowered sari

Thursday, May 13th, 2010

 

 

Where did you go, dark clouded rainwallah?

Haven’t heard from you in so many days

Didn’t know whether you had died

Or were alive

When we drove the wind

To bring news of you, it crossed the seven seven seas and

Returned after winnowing the deserts,

May thieves rob you! May someone die in your home!

So many years! Where did you eat?

Where did you sleep? Where did you stay?

It seemed like all tales had been burnt

Even when we pierced our eyes no sliver of a cloud turned dark,

Had you become a tree among trees, a hill among hills:

We had no idea; from saplings to grown trees, everyone among us has been crying in bushels

Life had become purposeless like we were meant for carrying wood to the ghat

Pearly lake chains*, golden crop beads and

Armlet streams were all pawned somewhere;

Springs from my eye mountains splintered in the sun and

Dried in streaks all over my body,

My leafy torso had turned into withered straw;

Come from the east like a Thumma** grove

Come from the west with beaming milky smiles

Come from the north with thunders

Come from the south in great showers;

Won’t you come and paste on me a blouse dotted with glistening pond mirrors?

Wrap me in a raindrop flowered sari?

 ~~

Naren Bedide‘s translation of Jupaka Subhadra‘s Telugu poem ‘ sinuku puula siire suTTawaa’ (from her collection of poetry ‘ayyayyO dammakka’).

* the lake chain refers to a series, chain, of uniquely designed large irrigation tanks built by the Kakatiyas (11th to early 14th century) in Warangal and other districts in Telangana, which would fill up sequentially during the monsoon rains.

** Thumma: Babul, acacia arabica.

I guess this one, like all other poems I've posted here, will always need reworking.

Awwal Kalima

Thursday, May 6th, 2010

Kavi Yakoob

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.

 

Naren Bedide: My translation of the Telugu poem 'Awwal Kalima' by Yakoob (from his 2002 book of poetry 'sarihaddu rEkha')

Son! Yesoba!

Thursday, April 29th, 2010

What can I say Sir!

My son Yesobu

died in the war

my son who could conquer Neerukonda*

lies sacrificed on a slab of ice.

He left with a smile

and has returned as a corpse

smiling, he calls 'nAnna'*

he went on foot and has returned a bridegroom

a flowering plant has returned as a fallen banyan

he has returned.

What can I say? and how?

people turn up here as at a fair

in throngs and throngs,

addressing them, speaking of

my son's 'sacrifices, patriotism'

you, Sarpanch babu! Sir!

When he stopped

people washing their animals

in the tank

didn't you, with a whip

lash my son's chest

mark him with stains?

In the cinema outside our village

for buying a big ticket*

and sitting alongside you

didn't you scheme

to cut his hands legs?

Was it your daughter who looked at him

or he who looked at her

I do not know but-

to kill lionlike Yesobu

you wove the noose,

how can we forget this history!

We know all this

does the rain wash away the wounds, Sir!

On the untouchable's eyelids

these truths stand erect

like crowbars driven into our hearts.

Mothers! Sirs!

My son's death:

this isn't the first,

many times in our village

he died and lived

to live he joined the army

as a corpse, he has returned alive.

Ayyo!

my mind's not in my mind

my mind's not in my mind

Sir! In my eyes

the pyre dances

son! Yesoba! Yesoba!

Yesoba! My father!

For you

I'll weep like Karamchedu*

for you

I'll weep like Chunduru*

for you

I'll weep like Vempenta*

I'll weep like yesterday's Gosayipalem*!

Father! As a teardrop big as the sky

I'll pour like a storm for you!

Elders! Lords!

Salutations!

I wish to curse you

a basketful of curses

I wish to drive a basketful of wild ants

to bite you all over,

to see my son's corpse, arriving

like armies of ants

and disappearing like swarms of locusts,

you patriots!

Wait a second

if you're made of pus and blood, shame and honour

if your liver hasn't melted yet

answer this untouchable's questions:

not my son

you've come to visit his corpse

do you agree?!

My son dead is a veera jawan

alive he's a Mala* jawan

What do you say?

Answer me!

Swear on your Manu

as a pigeon and a snake

can't be linked

your upper caste pride

can't go with patriotism.

Elders! Lords!

Listen! Listen to the untouchable word:

between the village and the wada*

there's a Kargil,

from grandfathers' forefathers' age,

burning between us

this Kargil war

hasn't stopped, it goes on.

Son! Yesoba!

On the third day

if you can't return

find the time

to return some day

and wipe my tears! Father!

 

-My translation of K.G.Satyamurthy's ('Sivasagar') Telugu poem kodukA! yEsobA!, written in 1999 (from his collection of poetry: 'Sivasagar Kavitvam').

*neerukonDa, kAramcheDu, chunDuuru, vEmpenTa, gOsaayipaalem are all villages where incidents of organized violence against Dalits occurred. The word 'konDa' (in Neerukonda) means 'hill'.

*nAnna: father.

*Mala: a large Dalit sub-caste in South India, mainly found in Andhra Pradesh.

*big ticket: refers to a class of seating in village cinemas where patrons sit in chairs, unlike the other major class where everyone sits on the floor.

*wADa: short for Dalitawada, or Dalit hamlet/quarter in a village.

Greetings

Monday, April 26th, 2010

A century will end

a new year will arrive

if what's happening now is war

why shouldn't what's arriving be war?

You know the candles you're lighting

are dying

the earthen lamps in your streets

are signs of your darkness

why do you

light up all the festive pandals

while leaving the lamp in your heart unlit?

Yes, until yesterday your hut used to burn to ashes

today, used as firewood in the winter fires lit in your gudem*

you've turned into soot.

It was in Vempenta** that they were burnt alive

you can go on celebrating the festival

until those flames touch us.

With the sharpened knives those babus gave you

cut your bodies into two

to inspire the fistfuls of blood

to flow as canals in your gudems

this new year, take a manusmriti as greeting

from those babus.

To commemorate your happiness

feast

on your children's future cut, like bread, into pieces

as a reflection of the blood

and in place of the body of

Christ.

This is a happy occasion

we shouldn't think about anything

even if the ground under our feet is cutting us

like the teeth of a saw we'll shout in joy

and chase away all the street dogs

to rule the streets tonight.

 

Students!

Let's sweep

all our university rooms clean

Come, let's heap all those glass shards

on pages torn from our books,

Ambedkar will be born again anyway

to light lamps in our dark rooms

and burn our black lips

with hot coals

to purify them,

love us and leave.

 

Brothers!

You who ate the first fruits

are you handing over new begging bowls

to the next generation?

Yes this is a new year

so only those who died

are singing the song of war

only that song can guide us.

Men

become lovers of war

not to walk with history

but to run history.

 

Tried to translate Katti Padma Rao's Telugu poem, 'Greeting' (from his collection of poetry, 'mulla kiriiTam').

*guuDem: Dalit quarter in a village.

** VEmpenTa refers to this incident.

And now

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

At noon

I'm looking at my corpse

blocking the sluice of the tank

 

Moving hither thither

from the wind's blows

my corpse has bloated

after slipping into the sluice

 

Perhaps now

I'll look

at the corpse breaking up the sluice.

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'ika ippuDu' (from the 1996 collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina pATa')  by Jugash Vili.

Open the doors wide…

Wednesday, April 21st, 2010

The rivers are solidifying

the mountains are flowing

open the doors wide…

 

This is not the time of the rising sun

this is the hour of the blazing sun

it's difficult to keep the eyes closed

 

There are only whilrwinds and storms here

and no breezes or drizzles

 

You won't hear the tinkle of the anklets now

or the sitar music of gentle breezes

 

There's only an endless roll of drums

for now, they might be diverse voices

so what? They're all defiant voices!

Friend!

Now, here

the waves are crossing the shore

open the doors wide…

they'll flow into you

or they'll cross you too.

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'talupulu bArlA teru…' (from the 1996 collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina pATa') by Jugash Vili.

This is enough

Monday, April 19th, 2010

You've the Brahmastra,

good for you.

 

You've the Paashupatastra,

good for you.

 

You've the Vishnu Chakra,

good for you.

 

You've Arjuna's Gandeeva,

Bhima's mace, Drona's tuft

good for you.

 

You've Rama's bow,

Anjaneya's tail,

Parasurama's sword,

good for you.

 

You've power, you've glory,

good for you

You've that..this..

good for you

that..this..you can keep.

 

We've only Ekalavya's

left thumb

still left with us,

this is enough for us

to fight with you…

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'ennunTEnEm?' (from the 1996 collection of Dalit poetry, 'padunekkina pATa') by Suryavamshi.

No one’s a bigger killer than God

Friday, April 16th, 2010

You can kill a man any way you want

not only by stabbing him

or throwing a bomb,

by even embracing him with suffocating love

                        not allowing him to breathe

you can kill a man.

 

You can kill a man any way you want

not only by mixing poison in his water

by mixing caste too you can take his life

where religion becomes surplus value

not only the noose

the thread around your waist also becomes lethal

when God becomes the symbol of a religion or a caste

in truth,  no one's a bigger killer than God

Only someone who has lost faith in men

can trust God

Where, the sword of caste

hangs over our throats, always,

the gun of religion

remains pointed at our hearts

human relations can only thrive

as oceans of tears.

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'dEvuDiki minchina hantakuDE lEDu' (from the 1996 collection of Dalit poetry, 'padunekkina pATa') by kO.pra.

You..move!

Thursday, April 15th, 2010

Yes

I am the Madiga tappeta* which hung on the wall until yesterday

Today

I've come to your street

I won't deny that

until yesterday our homes were the graveyards outside the village

But today

we've built the tombs

of our brothers,

killed by your dark shadows,

right in front of your temples.

And now

the tombs which have sprung up in the middle of your village

need a path

you..move!

I gift you

the space

I left outside the village.

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'lE…lErA!' by Ram (from the 1996 collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina pATa').

* tappeTa: also called Dappu, a drum used by the Madigas. Read more about it here.

Wasn’t it from your blows…

Wednesday, April 14th, 2010

Sirs!
Weren't we of the superstructure until yesterday
how would we have any base?
Without any foundation
how can there be any structure,
true!

Until now, building everything for you
became our only occupation
leaving us with no building of our own

Sirs!
look at that
marxism, ambedkarism
the ride on twin bullocks has begun
our madiga dappu had turned cold
having drummed the background score for you all this while
today, with reddening eyes it has turned warm again
readying to compose your funeral beat
wasn't it from your blows, sirs,
that we learnt how to retaliate?
The time will come
the time has to come
saved, like the sharpness of a knife,
the resentment so intently saved in our bellies
isn't it only now, sirs-
that it is gathering strength?
We are boycotting your courts
where those who should be in cages
sit on thrones and deliver judgments
the gun might be yours
but the hands that shall press the trigger are ours
we proudly declare!

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'meeru koTTina debbala nunchE…' by kO.pra. Found that in a recent collection of poetry by Madiga poets called 'kaitunakala danDem'.

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