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Archive for the ‘Translations’ Category

Thousands of Rivers

Wednesday, February 22nd, 2012

But yesterday,

they came like a mountain,

my people.

They arrived in hordes

my men,

yesterday!

Black faces bearded with silver

burning eyes red with rage

burst through the blankets of sleep

breaking the barriers of day

breaching the bounds of night.

Earth heaved in the mountains of my men

and quaked to their dance of rage

and those who crawled in lines of ants

rose in paws of jungle beasts

and those who crept like reptiles

rose in cobra hoods.

They rose, my men, in mountains

shouting the red song

Down, down inequality

Down Caste Hierarchy

Down the bug that fattens on money.

Ah, they flooded and flowed in rivers,

my people, yesterday!

The town and village they inundated

they plunged to depths of unknown roots

they floated to heights of unseen stars.

See how by the bushes and under the trees

in the streets and in the alleys

they gather in hordes,

my people,

flushing down the ranks of Headman’s power

and the files of Money-lenders away.

These shout a shriek of defiance

those are struck dumb,

these thunder from angry throats

those fall silent.

Ah, the winds of Revolution,

my people,

have seized the throats of those cut-throats.

See how in the whirlwind

twist the police batons

and knives of secret agents.

See how the twigs and dry leaves

spin the debris of Vedas,

of Puranas and Shastras.

See how the dirt of ammunition

and hardware of gunmen

whirl in the whirlwind

of Revolution!

Ah, my people

how they flooded in thousands of rivers

to swell the Revolutionary Sea.

 

Siddalingaiah's Kannada poem translated by P Rama Murthy. Source: A string of pearls, Edited by H.S.Shivaprakash and K.S.Radhakrishna. Please read Siddalingaiah's interview here and a review of his book Ooru Kheri here

A Song of Poykayil Appachan

Friday, February 17th, 2012

No, not a single letter is seen

On my race

So many histories are seen

On so many races

 

Scrutinize each one of them

The whole histories of the world

Not a single letter is seen

On my race

 

There was no one on this earth

To write the history

Of my race in the olden days

What a pity!

 

Think of it

Regret fills within

Let me add something

In my own melody

 

The story of

A people who lived in Kerala

Since the ancient times

And how they became demons

 

No shame have I

To say the faults of my caste

Though all blame me

A cursed offspring on earth

 

How is it possible

That all blame us

Till the end

Of earth and sky

 

How can God

Who shaped everything

Allow this to happen

On earth today?

 

Translated from Malayalam by Ajay Sekher. Today is the 134th birth anniversary of Poykayil Appachan, the dalit social reformer of Kerala. 

More of his songs can be read in the book, Unknown Subjects: Songs of Poykayil Appachan. Edited by V V Swamy and E V Anil. Translated by Ajay Sekher. Kottayam: IPRDSS, 2008.

Service in the nude

Tuesday, February 7th, 2012

The usual male priest
was praying to the deity – right, mother?
"The whole time I'm inside the sanctum,
the life in me is rotting away,
I have no entertainment," he said.
Ellamma appeared to him –
"Ask your heart's desire", she said.
"Once a year at your festival
the womenfolk should go naked
in your presence. The whole body
should be revealed to us,"
he replied.
"Granted," said Ellamma, and holding
her sari tight around her,
she climbed the hill.
In this way
an atrocity
was sanctioned by the gods and became
"service in the nude"

Mudnakudu Chinnaswamy's Kannada poem 'bettala seve'  translated by Prof. Rowena Hill. Read his other poems here and here

About Bettale Seve: The Dalit movement in Karnataka has had to deal with some of the most exploitative caste-based religious practices. These days various dalit organizations and leaders are engaged in raising awareness about 'Made Snana', and are struggling with the political process to get this practice banned. Back in the 80's and 90's dalit organizations worked hard to expose another reprehensible caste & gender  exploitative practice called 'Bettale Seve' or Nude-worship described in this poem.

Eventually in 1992, a ban was imposed on Bettale Seve at Chandragutti temple.

"Chandragutti, a village in Shimoga district is situated at a distance of 16 km, west of Sorab taluk. There is a temple of the goddess, built in 14th century, at the top of Chandragutti hill. The faithful from Dalit and bahujan communities were (are?) made to believe that the speciality of this temple is that Dalit women and men must go naked to worship this devi since the puranas says that if people go naked and pray to the devi they get all their wishes fulfilled, and people who do not follow these traditions meet with a lot of calamities . Hence, for hundreds of years, in the month of March, thousands of men and women were seen marching into the temple completely naked and offering their prayers to the goddess. Some emancipated youth tried to stop this practice in 1984. But these activists were thrashed by goons and supporters of the temple-priests, paraded naked, and made to worship the devi. The victims included police officials even women police officers.

A committee investigated the religious sanction of Nagna-puja gave a report in 1988 stating that there is no such sanction in Hinduism. Amidst hue and cry the practice was stopped. Still incomplete in implementation, the law stems out of a central objection that the presentation of nude women invariably is a prelude to their enticement into prostitution."

It is not binding on us to undertake this journey

Thursday, January 19th, 2012

It is not binding on us to undertake this journey

The ravished landscape, the settlements

of emaciated bodies

couldn't be the path of life, could it?

And are we to rest under this leafless tree?

Or quench a lifetime's thirst

in these dry riverbeds?

No, this ravishment would never be

our way of life.

The sun vomitting fire,

valleys gagged with the silence of ages,

the parched desert

and only our feet unshod

A road must be levelled out

smooth and metalled,

which is why I say

It is not binding on us to undertake this journey.

It's a flock of sheep which walks

along the metalled road and when time comes

returns mutely to the fold

And we understand.

 

Manohar Wakode's Marathi poem translated by Charudatta Bhagwat.

Source: No entry for the new sun. Translations from Modern Marathi Dalit poetry. Edited by Arjun Dangle

So Many Alphabets are Seen

Saturday, January 7th, 2012

 

Crisscross marks of the broom

Made of coconut leaf-bristles fill the tidied front yard

Bursting in laughter and fragrance

Stands the Ilanji tree at the margin of the yard

Clean after bath black kids wait

On the verandah looking for a come back

Clean kitchen pots and vessels bask in evening light

Along with spatulas made of coconut shells

 

Such small changes are seen everywhere you see

The home you left for work is not the one you enter after work

The children are also changed as you come back

With the wage of paddy in the corner folding of loincloth

 

Who cleaned and kept the littered house like this?

Who made the little dirty ones with running nose

Into smiling flowers with fragrance?

 

Yes, so many alphabets are seen

In their eyes.

 

Ajay Sekher's translation of the Malayalam poem “So Many Alphabets are Seen” by poet M R Renukumar. 

M R Renukumar is a poet, writer and painter from Kottayam. 

Rise to learn and Act

Tuesday, January 3rd, 2012

~Savitribai Phule

 

Weak and oppressed! Rise my brother

Come out of living in slavery.  

Manu-follower Peshwas are dead and gone

Manu’s the one who barred us from education.

Givers of knowledge– the English have come

Learn, you’ve had no chance in a millennium.

We’ll teach our children and ourselves to learn

Receive knowledge, become wise to discern.

An upsurge of jealousy in my soul

Crying out for knowledge to be whole.

This festering wound, mark of caste

I’ll blot out from my life at last.

In Baliraja’s kingdom, let’s beware

Our glorious mast, unfurl and flare.

Let all say, “Misery go and kingdom come!”

Awake, arise and educate

Smash traditions-liberate!

We’ll come together and learn

Policy-righteousness-religion.

Slumber not but blow the trumpet

O Brahman, dare not you upset.

Give a war cry, rise fast

Rise, to learn and act.

 

Sunil Sardar and Victor Paul have translated this poem along with four other poems for a chapter in a lovely book titled: A forgotten liberator: The life and struggles of Savitribai Phule. These poems were translated from M.G. Mali’s original Marathi collection Savitribai Phule Samagra Wangmaya.

Bodhi Tree (pimpalvrksa)

Monday, January 2nd, 2012

Here is a settlement.

Houses with red-tiled roofs,

planned roads,

gardens and lawns.

 

It is a laboratory to mold people…

Minds are being forged

        in what sort of furnace?

Smiles on faces and poison in hearts,

no harmony between thought and action.

The same old customary drill is on.

 

Those calculating faces,

somewhat sophisticated,

are going to change their masks and come out

singing the arati of my welcome.

 

I am satisfied that

I have sown the seeds

But here they have already started the preparations

     for the resistance…

I am doubtful:

Will at least one seed sprout?

Bodhi tree…………..

 

Mina Gajbhiye's Marathi poem 'pimpalvrksa' translated by Shubhangi Apte and Slyvie Martinez with some changes by Eleanor Zelliot

About this poem, Eleanor Zelliot writes "seems to indicate the touching faith that the seed of Buddhism might possibly overcome the traditionalism and hypocrisy of Hinduism." 

Source: Images of women in Maharastrian Literature and Religion. Edited by Anne Feldhaus.

O Great Man (mahapurusa)

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011

O Great Man

Those who strewed thorns in your path

today offer you flowers

and sing your praises

— now this is really too much —

 

During the dark procession of time

you lit the flowers of light

but these imposters, these villians

crushed, extinguished those flowers.

Today those flowers have turned into a wildfire

and those villains are fanning that wildfire

— oh now this is too much–

 

Like an elephant ramming a gate

you pounded on the temple door

the stones of the temple shook.

Under the holy name of religion

they long ago enslaved the gods

Your honest painful claim

of the right to see the gods

was crushed, thrown out of the village.

Now they decorate the great tree

that sprouted on that spot

–now this is really too much–

 

It is clear that nature belongs to all

but these people bought that too.

Every drop of water in Chawdar Tank

was stamped with their name,

the alert watchman of this culture

guarded the imprisoned water.

They feared that your touch

would poison the water and

they anointed you with your blood

when you were dying of thirst.

And now they pour water

into the mouth of your stone effigy

–oh now this is really too much–

 

Hira Bansode's Marathi poem Mahapurusa was first published in Sakal in 1980. Source: Images of Maharastrian women in literature and religion. Edited by Anne Feldhaus.

Seashell

Thursday, November 24th, 2011

Don't see me

as a useless blind shell

and throw me away

in disgust

 

For a minute

hold me to your ear

with patience.

Through me

you can listen to

infinite roars of the ocean.

Though you've separated

my ocean from me

I've assimilated the whole ocean in myself.

Whatever inference

you may draw from that roar,

I speak that language.

 

My translation of Sikhamani's Telugu poem 'aalcippa' from his collection of poetry, muvvala chEtikarra

Begumpura

Friday, November 4th, 2011

The regal realm with the sorrowless name:

they call it Begumpura, a place with no pain,

No taxes or cares, none owns property there,

no wrongdoing, worry, terror, or torture.

Oh my brother, I've come to take it as my own,

my distant home where everything is right.

That imperial kingdom is rich and secure,

where none are third or second – all are one;

They do this or that, they walk where they wish,

they stroll through fabled palaces unchallenged.

Oh, says Ravidas, a tanner now set free,

those who walk beside me are my friends. 

 

Sant Ravidas's poem from the book Songs of the Saints of India, edited by Hawley and Juergensmeyer, page 32 [AG3]. Gail Omvedt in her book, Seeking Begumpura, writes "It (begumpura poem) was an expression, in the early modern age, of a utopia, perhaps the first one in Indian literature. In some ways it seems to stand alone, yet it was a harbinger -of the kind of social vision that would underlie all the later struggles and theorizing of anticaste inetllectuals.  Begumpura was, for Ravidas, an imagined city, without geographical location, without a history: it was to be a later task to build it in space and time."  

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