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The Passion of Kanchikacherla Kotesu

Friday, March 31st, 2017

Kalekuri Prasad

Even as the wounds festered syam_kanchikahcerla

Wasn’t it your footprints

That I bore on my heart

Even as death approached, didn’t I seek life with only you?

Beloved, with the rice mixed with curd

That you served me in the morning as my witness

Shall I tell you the cause of my death?

 ‘Beloved’! To call you that

How the language of our hearts’ blood struggled!

Even as our bodies enveloped each other

In the dark

I could only call you ‘Mistress’

My wish was never fulfilled until death

Even as your folks tied me to a tree

And beat me like I was a beast

I imagined I was a prince in a swashbuckler film

If someone had asked, what happened?

I wanted to say that I loved you

But the raccabanda* had charged me with being a thief

Weren’t you the witness!

I know how to burn dead bodies

But you burnt me alive

"Father, forgive them,

for they do not know what they are doing"

I remembered what the padre told me

About our lord’s plea.

In remembrance of the sleepless nights we had spent together

If even a single tear drop had glistened in your eyes

I would have forgiven you and your race

The furnace you had stoked in my heart

The flames from the kerosene your folks poured over me

If asked, which hurt more

I can’t say anything, love

As these flames engulf me

It feels like you’re embracing me. 

~

This untitled poem by Kalekuri Prasad was translated from Telugu by Naren Bedide. The lynching of Kanchikacherla Kotesu for his love of an upper caste woman is illustrated in a series of drawings by Syam Cartoonist. Please see his album titled The Untouchable Love .

* The village bench, where the elders hold council.

 

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Ash only knows the heat of burning

Wednesday, March 2nd, 2016

Mudnakudu Chinnaswamy

A bonded labourer was my grandfather

Leaving the cattle at the tank bund

He gathered some water in cupped hands and drank

The news spread through the village

That the tank was defiled

Caste men threw him to the haystacks in flames

And burnt him alive

 

Unable to bear the burden of the burnt ashes

Mother earth sobbed in lightning and thunder

Then the Lord of the sky poured down as rain

And soothed her

Then was born my father

As cinder was covered in ashes

 

A bonded labourer was my father

Like his father, craving for a son like him

He prayed standing on his head and stretched his

Hands to the courtyard of the temple

The news spread through the village

That the God was defiled

Caste men lit fire to the hut

The skeleton of my sleeping father inside

Was burnt alive

 

Unable to bear the burden of the burnt ashes

Mother earth wept and cried, sobbing in earthquakes

The sea rushed in a deluge, soothing her and

Then was I born, a volcano

 

Now they can’t burn me,

They burn themselves trying to grab me

Because I have turned into

The letter that burns the ignorance,

A witness for the deathless truth

~~~

Translated from the Kannada original by the poet

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The Rebellious Fields

Thursday, October 8th, 2015

Gaddar

The paddy fields ask, 
Where’s the farmer who quenched our thirst?
The cotton fields ask,
Where’s the farmer who sprinkled blood to protect us?
They hug each other and weep–don’t understand why
They roll on the ground and weep–Don’t understand why
The basmati asks,
Where’s the sweat-scented farmer?
The masoors ask,
Where’s that large-hearted man? 
They thump their chests and wail–don’t understand why
They question the dawn–don’t understand why
The palak asks, 
Where’s the farmer so dear to us? 
The coriander asks,
Where’s the farmer so full of goodness? 

They sobbed and sobbed and withered up–don’t understand why
They waited and waited and shrivelled up–don’t understand why
Windless, the red gram and the horse gram fields
Nod listlessly
They look in all directions and ask,
Where’s the farmer so full of love? 
They sink into sorrow–don’t understand why
They’ve fallen senseless in grief–don’t understand why
The snake gourd and the bottle gourd
The ridge gourd and beans
The eggplant so tender
Blood red tomatoes
All ask–where’s the farmer
Who kissed us before we started rotting? 
They slap their heads and cry–don’t understand why
They wail loudly and cry–don’t understand why

The onion and garlic
Groundnuts and potatoes – 
All of which nestle in the earth mother’s womb
As they grow up, ask
Where’s our father who would show us the world? 
They wept uncontrollably–don’t understand why
They rot and die–don’t understand why

All the cotton fields together
Spread a new garment over him
The dried sticks assemble themselves
Into a cot
The paddy straw becomes a mattress
So that his ribs wouldn’t hurt
The betel leaf presses her mouth 
Over his and kisses him
They cook seven kinds of rice
In a new pot
The kumkum tree shines 
As the crescent moon on his forehead
They all say
We will leave with the farmer who gave us birth
They hug each other and weep–don’t understand why
They roll on the ground and weep–don’t understand why
They cry, our existence has lost meaning
They burn and burn on the pyre
And rise as an inferno
They burn to ashes
The villain who poisons the farmer
The sugarcane fields dive into the water
Release the drawing bucket and return
The green fields become red–don’t understand why
They took to the path of the angry rebels–don’t understand why

~ 

Translation of Gaddar's Telugu song 'vori sElu aDiginaayi'. Translator: Naren Bedide. 

 

  

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Nation of two statues

Friday, October 2nd, 2015

Satish Chandar

Like everyone has his own mother

everyone has his own statue too

The statue in the village belongs to the village

The statue in the wada belongs to the wada

The village has a name and a voice

and a lifestyle,

The wada lacks air, water

and food to eat.

Look at the statue in the village

it wears only a loin cloth

Behold! The statue in the wada

sports a suit and shoes like a saahib!

A poor soul in front of the mansion

and royal splendour beside the hut

The agraharam sulked

while the slum beamed

Gruel filled the silver plate

while milk flowed in the begging bowl 

A cane and sandals for the statue in the village

While the statue in the wada got a new pen and books

This strange phenomenon in every village

mocked vedabhoomi

Why does the statue in the village exhibit humility?

Why does the statue in the wada display pride?

Those who had nothing.

Questioned the two statues.

Sacrifice, answered the statue with toothless smiles in the village

Justice, said the statue of fiery speech in the wada

The statue in the village said, 'I do not want

what you do not have'

The village maids wore many splendid silks

and expensive secret garments

While the mothers in the wada

covered their breasts with coarse cloth

The village lord

flaunted fancy dhotis and kanDuvas*

The poor father in the village

was satisfied with just a loin cloth

Stripped of his clothes

the village statue was a sorry, skinny figure..

While the statue in the wada

shone in garments the wada parents never knew

The whole village was startled

The wada sang its wisdom:

The village idealises giving up what it owns

The wada dares to dream of what it doesn't have

The statue in the village said: here's the wheel, spin it

The statue in the wada said: here's the state, rule it! 

 

*kanDuva: an upper garment worn by men, like the angavastram. 

 ~                    

Translation of Satish Chandar's Telugu poem 'renDu bommala dESam!', first published in 'soorya' newspaper on 10th March, 2008, and featured in the collection of poetry, Kavita 2008. Translated by Naren Bedide.           

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Janeu-less writer 

Friday, September 25th, 2015

Musafir Baitha

Mister writer is a Brahmin
and has turned seventy two
not his fault to be born 
in a Brahmin clan
he says so himself, we do too
reaching this grand age
the writer has initiated
a massive programme to
wash away his Brahmin-ness
to wipe it clean
by breaking his janeu

despite his self-proclamations
or as per the worlds’ claims
in fact, because the world says so
people still accord him respect 
reserved for a Brahmin 
even in this de-casting that unfolds
what’s his role?
to who all,
where all
should he keep swearing by
this breaking of his janeu?

all exclusive savarna panels
still extend him ceremonious invitations
and his janeu-breaking,
de-casting trick
has been deliberately ignored
by his friends and foes alike
who continue to revere him 
at his savarna pedestal
even if he wants to escape all this
then how can he
or why should he?
given the benefits 
of this special treatment
it is easier to break that janeu                                  
because it only breaks on the surface  
even as it stays intact under 
seven layers of clothing

that this outward breaking
has some visible effect
is not necessary

to have that effect
a lot more than this thread 
needs to be broken

the twenty two years Dasrath Manjhi took
is the kind of persistence one needs

janeu is brahminism
the claim to be a different being
to be born of the same mother
and yet imagine oneself to be differently born
it is a reflection of the hubris
of some false exalted origin.
It requires persistence
whether it comes from the heart
or against one’s wishes

I asked the writer:
good you broke it 
but apart from this janeu
what else have you broken
in the thread that binds your caste?
The writer seems at a loss for words.

~

English translation of Musafir Baitha’s Hindi poem 'Janeu-tod lekhak'; translated by Gaurav Somwanshi and Akshay Pathak. 

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You cannot die, Manu Taanti!

Tuesday, September 1st, 2015

Gurinder Azad

I kept silent at your death
didn’t speak with anyone either.

but then yesterday, 
just across the metro
when I spotted a crowd of daily wage labourers 
the thought of you came flashing,
in their faces
I searched for the elegy to 
what followed those four days of your labour.. 
but I kept walking, didn’t stay there for long

there were moments when
the slogans to demand our rights
and your screams ground in that thresher –
both seemed the same to my mind.

and moments when
my conscience
got drenched in fear
after looking at
a vacuum appear on the vast backdrop
of our movement.
then giving myself false assurances, I moved on

your last few pictures on facebook – I 
have not been able to look at those.
But that image that moves faster than imagination –
it disappears somewhere 
after witnessing your helpless last moments
at the unknown shores of your family’s remorse

but even in this
the memory throws forth,
however hazily,
the vast backdrop of our movement
where Khairlanji and other such massacres
appear holding on to canvases.

however, Manu Taanti
knowing my conscience 
in whatever form,
today, I shall speak with my 
broken, perhaps dwarf-like words
that the time will change
your circumstances
your condition
the news of your murder – all
have passed on to our marching feet

Our massacres do not die!

and this wasn’t about demanding your wage 
for those four days of labour
this is the account of many centuries..
till it is settled,
You cannot die, Manu Taanti!

~

Akshay Pathak’s English translation of Gurinder Azad’s Hindi poem, 'yeh chaar din ki dehaadi ki baat nahin thi, Manu Taanti'. 

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Words

Friday, August 21st, 2015

Ajay Tanveer

ajay tanveer

Words of my poem don’t do embroidery on paper,

Don’t make flowers and vines,

They don’t burn in the fire of lovers' separation….

They talk about those who can’t speak,

Who can’t hear, who can’t write,

Who can’t read…

That is why the trajectory of my thoughts is distinct..

Every word of my poem comes after touching the tip of the knife and the keen edge of the sword,

That is why my poem is very sharp and jabs the capitalists' chests

….be careful while reading it…..

The words of my poem also get hot like red hot iron,

They also glower in anger and then they revolt when there is any atrocity on the helpless,

Hence my poem is dipped in the color of revolt

~

Rajinder Azad's translation of Ajay Tanveer's Punjabi nazm 'Laphaz'. Ajay Tanveer is now based in California, and is popularly known as "Peeta Chandeli Wala" in the Punjabi literary world.

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Self-respect

Wednesday, August 5th, 2015

 Kamal Dev Pall

Centuries ago

You abused him

He remained silent

You became extremely happy;

You tested the limits of his tolerance

Although you had forgotten 

How you had poured molten lead into his ears

So that he couldn’t hear anything

And you would keep reciting Vedas and Simrities 

And you would keep devising new tools to enslave him.

Even then when you abused him

He captured in the depth of his mind

The movement of your lips and the expressions on your face  

However he never showed such expressions on his face.

All the poison and anger he swallowed 

Which after digestion, entered his bloodstream

Ran into his veins rapidly and then 

Entered into the veins of his descendants;

That poison and that aggression 

Are now entering inside me 

And will grow hot like lava

Inside the blood of countless oppressed people

And an explosion is possible any time. 

~ 

Kamal Dev Pall's Punjabi poem 'Svey Maan', from the collection 'Din Part Aungey' (The days will come back), translated by Rajinder Azad

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…for us poor folk, what lohris, what diwalis?

Tuesday, August 4th, 2015

 

गुड़ती में मिले हमें दुःख परेशानी

शायद देती हमें दादी नानी

रूढ़ियों पर गुज़रता बचपन हमारा

जट्टों के खेतों में जवानी 

 

सोचते हुए दिन रातें जागके गुज़ार लीं 

किस बात की गरीबों की लोहड़ी दिवाली

 

रात भूखे सोये हमें शंका है सवेर की

एक वक्त की खाली अब पता नहीं दूजी बार की

हमारी तो खुशियां भी फ़िक्रों ने खालीं

 

किस बात की गरीबों की लोहड़ी दिवाली

 

माँ गयी काम पर अभी तक आई नहीं

क़यामत की है ठण्ड उसने कोटी भी तो पहनी नहीं

पाथते ईंटें उसने उंगलियां घिसालीं

 

जब हमारे पिता बारे लोग हमसे पूछते

आता नहीं जवाब हमें सवाल लाखों उठते

लिखी हुई नसीबों की न जा सकें टाली

 

किस बात की गरीबों की लोहड़ी दिवाली

 

दिल करे किसका कि तमाशा बने जग का

संगदिल सेक बुरा तानों की आग का

आंचल में इल्ज़ामॊं की गठ्री जाए न सहारी

 

किस बात की गरीबों की लोहड़ी दिवाली

~

mixed in the gudthi,*we got sorrows and woes
our nanis and dadis perhaps passed us those 
on heaps of dung we spent our childhoods 
working the fields of those jatts, our youths

sleepless nights and days, we spent brooding
for us poor folk, what lohris, what diwalis?

slept hungry at night, for us the morning is a doubt
if one meal we eat, over the next hangs doubt
all these worries, they swallowed even our joys

…for us poor folk, what lohris, what diwalis? 

Mother went to work, isn’t back home till now
she has no warm clothes, and it’s biting cold now
lifting those bricks, and the pathana*
left her hands calloused and bruised

when they ask about our Father, we have no answers
many doubts arise for we have no answers
what fate has written, can’t be refused

…for us poor folk, what lohris, what diwalis

who desires to be the world’s laughing stock?
Sangdila* harsh is the heat of these fire-like taunts 
the heart cannot endure, this heavy load of slander

…for us poor folk, what lohris, what diwalis? 

*gudthi: the first food (mostly honey) usually fed by Grandparents (or some elders in the family or friends) to the newborn. It is believed that one takes a lot of the personality traits of the person who gave the gudthi.
*pathana: the process of applying liquefied mud to bricks to solidify them. Also used to describe the process of applying cow dung cakes on walls to dry them.
*sangdila: stone-hearted. Most likely the (pen)name of the songwriter.
~

Punjabi bahujan song translated by Gurinder Singh Azad (into Hindi) and Akshay Pathak (into English). 

The translators came across this song on youtube during their usual search for Punjabi poetry and songs. The song, as shown in the video,is performed by these two very talented boys in a village in Punjab, Pakistan. The presence of the dhol in the video suggests that they belong to a caste of performers and the words of the song clearly reflect their concerns about the bahujan laboring castes. In the process of translating, we got stuck on some particular words and were fortunately helped by friends from across the border, in particular Farukh Hammad who helped us in getting one of the lines through his friends Jasdeep Singh and Khan Muhammad. If someone can share more details about the young artists, we would be very grateful. 

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Sona: Mother of Ten

Sunday, May 10th, 2015

Translated from Pali by Thanissaro Bhikkhu 

 

Ten children I bore

from this physical heap.

Then weak from that, aged,

I went to a nun.

She taught me the Dhamma:

aggregates, sense spheres, & elements.

Hearing her Dhamma,

I cut off my hair & ordained.

Having purified the divine eye

while still a probationer,

I know my previous lives,

where I lived in the past.

I develop the theme-less meditation,

well-focused oneness.

I gain the liberation of immediacy —

from lack of clinging, unbound.

The five aggregates, comprehended,

stand like a tree with its root cut through.

I spit on old age.

There is now no further becoming.

~

Sona: Mother of Ten (Thig 5.8), translated from the Pali by Thanissaro Bhiku. Access to Insight (Legacy Edition), 30 November, 2013, http://www.accesstonsight.org/tipitaka/thig/thig.05.08.than.html 

Source: The Therigatha, Verses of the Elder Nuns. The Therigatha, the ninth book of the Khuddaka Nikaya, consists of 73 poems — 522 stanzas in all — in which the early nuns (bhikkunis) recount their struggles and accomplishments along the road to arahantship. Their stories are told with often heart-breaking honesty and beauty, revealing the deeply human side of these extraordinary women, and thus serve as inspiring reminders of our own potential to follow in their footsteps.

 

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