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Archive for the ‘Translations’ Category

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).

Slave (‘ghulam’)

Tuesday, January 11th, 2011

Where the doors are decorated with mango leaves

Where the houses are ornamented with little flaming oil lamps

In that country a woman is still a slave

 

Where Sita entered the fire to prove her fidelity

Where Ahilya was turned to stone for Indra's lust

Where Draupadi was fractured to serve five husbands

In that country a woman is still a slave

 

Where a woman's identity fades like nature's blossoms

Where delicate jewels of emotion are trampled under a heel

Where free birds of dreams are scorned

In that country a woman is still a slave

 

Where the sky-flowers of desire must be left to float down the river

Where the threatening force of a woman's mind must be buried in the earth

Where the silvery moonlight of happiness must be poured into a jar of darkness

In that country a woman is still a slave

 

Where a woman in her youth is dried up by tradition

     she is confined all her life like a stunted tree

     she remains in the shadow of someone else's light

In that country a woman is still a slave

 

In that country where women are still slaves

The conflagration starts in the house of flowers

The festival of lordship is celebrated with joy but 

The stories of all that are recited with pain

 

To be a born a woman is unjust

To be a born a woman is unjust. 

 

Hira Bansode is a major dalit poet whose famous poems include "Yashodhara". The above poem was translated by S.K. Thorat and Eleanor Zelliot. Source: Images of women in Maharastrian Literature and Religion.

The portrait

Sunday, January 2nd, 2011

by Jayant Parmar

 

The Portrait

 

I can clearly count his ribs.

Sweeping the streets

His spine has worn out.

His dreams have been buried in the waste paper heap.

He remained all his life half naked

In fact he was intentionally kept so,

And yet no one called him half naked man.

So many holes of atrocities

On his shirt of life

While alive, how many deaths he met with,

If I begin to count

How many births I need to take?

Till the day

He has been kicked,

Tolerated tyranny

Silently.

But today from his sweat

I smell

Dynamite! 

 

Jayant Parmar is a bilingual poet writing in Urdu and Gujrati. He received the Sahitya Akademi award in 2009. He is also a calligrapher and an artist. 'The portrait' was translated by Vankar G K.  

Both are useless (‘dhoni nyarthac’)

Sunday, December 26th, 2010

 

by Mina Gajbhiye 

What will you do for those

whose hunger is an ache?

Shed two tears?

Give a fourth of a slice of bread?

What will you do for those 

who don't quite live

and don't quite die?

Write a beautiful poem of life?

Or a beautiful poem on death?

Whatever you do-

it will be useless. 

 

 

Translated by Jayant Karve and Eleanor Zelliot. Source: Images of Women in Maharashtrian Literature and Religion. Mina Gajbhiye  is a Dalit poet writing in the Marathi language. 

Kabir: Ramaini 62

Tuesday, December 21st, 2010

1. If thou thinkest the Maker distinguished castes:

birth is according to these penalties for deeds.

2. Born a Sudra you die a Sudra:

it is only in this world of illusion that you assume the
sacred thread.

3. If birth from a Brahman mother makes you Brahman:

why did you not come by another way ?

4. If birth from a Turk mother makes you Turk:

why were you not circumcised in the womb ?

5. If you milk black and yellow cows together:

will you be able to distinguish their milk ?

6. Sakhi :—O men, give up your pretence of great wisdom.

Says Kabir, Recite the name of the Bow-holder.

 

From The Bijak of Kabir, translated by the Rev. Ahmad Shah.
 

Kabir: Ramaini 35

Monday, December 13th, 2010

 

Worship, libations, six sacred rites,

this dharma's full of ritual blights.

Four ages teaching Gayatri, I ask you, who won liberty?

You wash your body if you touch another,

tell me who could be lower than you?

Proud of your merit, puffed up with your rights,

no good comes out of such great pride.

How could he whose very name

is pride-destroyer endure the same?

Drop the limits of caste and clan,

seek for freedom's space,

destroy the shoot, destroy the seed,

seek the unembodied place. 

 

Kabir: Ramaini 35, translation by Hess and Singh in The Bijak of Kabir 1986. 

Source:  Caste is the cruellest exclusion by Gail Omvedt.

Mother!

Sunday, December 5th, 2010

by Waman Nimbalkar 

 

Daylight would die. Darkness would reign.
We at our hut’s door. No single light inside.
Lights burning in houses around.
Kitchen-fires too. Bhakris beaten out.
Vegetables, gruels cooked.
In our nostrils, the smell of food. In our stomachs, darkness.
From our eyes, welling up, streams of tears.
Slicing darkness, a shadow heavily draws near.
On her head, a burden. Her legs a-totter.
Thin, dark of body…..my mother.
All day she combs the forest for firewood.
We wait her return.
When she brings no firewood to sell we go to bed hungry.
One day something happens. How we don’t know.
Mother comes home leg bandaged, bleeding.
A large black snake bit her, say two women.
He raised his hood. He struck her. He slithered away.
Mother fell to the ground.
We try charms. We try spells. The medicine man comes.
The day ends. So does her life.
We burst into grief. Our grief melts into air.
Mother is gone. We, her brood, thrown to the winds.
Even now my eyes search for mother. My sadness grows.
When I see a thin woman with firewood on her head,
I go and buy all her firewood.

Translated by Priya Adarkar. Source: Poisoned Bread: translations from modern Marathi Dalit literature., Ed: Arjuna Dangale.  

Bhakri: flat bread made of millets, eaten in Western and Central India.

Waman Nimbalkar passed away on December 3rd, 2010, The Shared Mirror wishes him eternal peace.  

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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